The call comes at noon.
Not early enough to catch her unprepared. Not late enough to grant her false hope.
Dianne is seated at the dining table, an untouched cup of tea cooling between her hands, when her phone vibrates against the polished surface. The sound is sharp in the quiet apartment, cutting cleanly through her thoughts.
She doesn't need to look at the screen.
Her body knows before her mind does—muscles tensing, breath hitching just slightly, a familiar rush of dread tightening around her ribs.
Still, she answers.
"Yes?" Her voice comes out smooth. Controlled. Almost pleasant.
"Ms. Jenkins," the woman on the other end says, tone professional and distant. "This is regarding the ongoing verification request."
There it is.
Dianne straightens in her chair, spine rigid. "Yes. I was expecting your call."
A lie. She had been dreading it.
