"Charlie's not here." The interloper sounded annoyed, but that wasn't my primary concern.
Vocal chords rough from not speaking for months, I cleared my throat. "Where is he?"
"He's at the funeral." The gears that had been grinding again stopped, seizing in the perfect certainty of Isabella Swan's death.
I had needed to know how. Where. When. None of it mattered anymore. What did the devices matter when their key component had been wrenched out and hatefully cast aside?
A cacophony on the other end. A female's shouting voice, indignant.
My foolish undead heart fluttered.