The kettle reaches a shrill, piercing peak. Anneliese Voss lifts it from the blue flame, the steam blooming against the white subway tiles of her kitchen. Light from the harbour bounces off the water, cutting through the floor-to-ceiling glass in long, blinding bars that make her squint. She sets the kettle down on a cork mat, her eyes catching the small chip on the rim of the saucer waiting on the counter. It is a tiny, jagged deficit in the white ceramic she has meant to throw away for weeks.
Then the landline rings. It is a sudden, mechanical rattle that feels discordant in the mid-afternoon stillness. Anneliese wipes her palms on her linen trousers and reaches for the slate-grey handset mounted near the pantry. Two minutes past three. She expects the dry, clipped tone of a real estate agent or perhaps Joel calling about a late shift at the Heads.
She presses the button to connect. The receiver is halfway to her ear when the kitchen window darkens with a sudden, moving shadow.
