Sunday, March 9th

*

    The siren shifted direction. That prick that was chasing him on foot must have made it back to his vehicle. Marie turned the corner and again at the half block, and headed back to 123rd. Milk felt just a little bit of relief. That cop wasn’t be­hind them. The relief, though ended when the horn sounded. “Stop that!” he screamed, pulling on her hair again.

    “I’m not doing anything!” She actually took her hands off the wheel. It beeped again, picking up the pace like a pulse. “What’s going on? What happened?” she demanded as she drove.

     “This little prick,” Milk tried to turn in his seat, and aim at his son while main­taining his grip on her, “Has a fucking big mouth. Don’t ya, Mikey? Couldn’t help it. You had to tell that Sophie bitch, didn’t you?”

    Mikey paused before answering. The color had drained from his face. “N..No. I didn’t say anything.”

      “My ass you didn’t. You told that Sophie bitch, and she told that pig of a hus­band of hers. I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut!”

        “Dad? Honest.” The kid looked like he’d faint with fear.

        “Milk, stop it. Leave him alone.”

       “I fucking wind up in jail for the rest of my life, and so help me, it’ll be for kill­ing off my son.” He turned back at her. “And how the hell do I know he’s mine anyway? The way you fuck around? You’d do it with anyone for a drink or a line. You’re a fucking whore, Marie. He’s a fucking bastard.”

    Marie swallowed heavily and he yanked on her hair again. He had no problem whatsoever, knocking her ass around before. There was nothing to stop him from doing it again. “You know what,” she began softly. “You got me. You don’t need him. Let him go.”

    “Shut the fuck up,” he bellowed.

   That first squad was right behind them when she turned south on Pullman. An­other lit squad pulled out of the cemetery entrance before 127th, and tried to block the lane. “Pull around him,” Milk ordered. “And step on it.”

   She made a wide cut about the second squad, and barely missed a car sitting in the left hand turning lane. She went up over the medium, down the other side, and quickly cut back into the left hand lane to avoid a car just turning onto Pull­man from 127th. She ran the light. Both squads got caught up in traffic that had just barely stopped in her wake.

*

   She topped the railroad bridge above the chemical company siding and the high school playing fields. He had her by the hair, just the same, her eyes barely wan­dered to that point where her son, Donny, must have been when he died. Milk  yanked her attention back to the road. She blew the stop on Refinery Road.

    She swallowed. No way could she afford to lose another child. Why didn’t Milk care? She had to do something. Just before the bridge crossing the Canal, she pulled over.

      “What the fuck are you doing?” he bellowed, almost on top of her.

      “Mikey, get out,” she ordered.

      “Mom?”

     “Mikey, get out.” Milk had her hair still, had her in one place. He curled up his fist, and she knew what was coming. He hit her as hard as he could. Life went black for a fraction of a second. Then pain and blood burst. She coughed and even spit out a tooth. He bounced around as the squads topped the railroad bridge be­hind them. She had absolutely nothing to lose at this point with the exception of her son’s life. “Mikey, get out,” she ordered. “I’m not moving until you do.”

      “Mom?”

     Milk half turned again. “Get the fuck out! Now!” The boy popped open the door and jumped. Marie didn’t wait for it to slam. She floored the Lincoln. Old and slow, it took a moment to climb to a decent speed. He released her hair and glanced back. One squad stopped to pick up their son. When Milk returned to her, she had topped the Canal bridge and was pushing forty. She had it up to sixty as she took the downward slope. She silently thanked God that Mikey was safe. Then she jammed the wheel hard to the right. “What the fu...” The vehicle drove up the edge of the sidewalk, and crashed through the guardrail, in the direction of the field opposite the trailer courts. For a few seconds, they were airborne. Then they came down, front end first, dropping faster than the back end did.

*

     The old beige Lincoln hit the field front end first, and crunched up like an accordion. Then it flipped over. The horn blared and the wheels spun. Kirby exited the bridge and pulled into the field next to it. If anyone survived this, it would be a miracle. “This is car one five oh,” he called into his radio. “I need an ambulance. I’m at Pullman and 145th Street.”

*

      Bill pulled up in front of the house and slammed on the brakes and threw his vehicle into park. He charged from the squad and into the house, slamming the door. Not a good sign.

     Sophie had dinner ready and kids had set the table. She waved him into the din­ing room where everything awaited him. He dropped his uniform cap onto the recliner. “Beer?” she asked as he tore his black leather uniform jacket off.

     “No.” He deposited the jacket on the recliner and rubbed his chest. Must have been a really tough day. His collar and cuffs were opened and both pulled back.  “You have any Pepcid?”

       “Sure.” When she returned with a pill and a glass of water, he had already taken his place at the table. He set his cell phone next to his plate and slumped in his chair. With head back, he pressed his fingers into his eyes. She had seen him do that way too often lately. “Here,” she offered, handing him the pill.

       He popped it in his mouth and downed the water in a blink. “Thanks.”

       “Any luck?”

       He dropped his hand and pulled himself up in his chair. “Yeah.” He nodded at Tina, who entered with a glass of milk. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said as she set the glass down in front of him. “Thanks.” He glanced about. The kids were anxious, obviously picking up vibes from both of them. “Let’s eat.”

     Sophie nodded and the kids took their places. She began by passing the platter to Tina. Bill served himself a healthy helping of pork, mashed potatoes and gravy. “Bill, green beans?”

        “I hate green beans.”

        “So do they,” she said nodding at the kids. “They don’t need an excuse not to eat theirs.”

      “Two,” Tina bargained. “That’s what Sophie says I have to eat. You can eat two.”

        “Just two?”

        "Just two.”

        “No more?”

        “No more.”

        “How about one?”

        “Bill. Sophie says two.”

       “Okay,” he nodded. “Two.” Tina passed him the bowl and even served him. Bill smiled at her, and tried one. Then his cell phone rang. “Ramos,” he said when he answered. “Okay.... Good.... Good... And you tell Felix not to fu..” he glanced about. “Screw this up. You got that, Callaghan?” He hung up without saying goodbye. He shoveled in a few more bites. The cell phone rang again. “Ramos.” His eyes turned hard, then hopeful, and then suddenly he covered his face with his hand. “No, don’t do that,” he said. “A few minutes.” He took another bite and jumped to his feet. “No idea when I’ll be home,” he hissed as he marched from the room. He grabbed his jacket off the chair. “Sophie, walk with me?” he called. She pushed away from her place. She picked up his cap as he threw his jacket on. 

      Once out on the porch, he paused. He touched her cheek and then pulled her close to him. He kissed her hard. “You know what absolutely pisses me off?”

       “What?”

    “People who haven’t got a clue what’s important.” He took his cap and pushed his hair from his forehead. “Expect Mikey tonight. I haven’t got any details yet, but something happened.”

*

     Last time Mikey was brought to a police station, he had Tina and Cory with him. Someone came for all three of them, and bundled them off to a place where there were a whole bunch of kids, and a lot more noise. 
    He sat where they told him to sit, and he pulled his legs up into his chest. That same old pain was beginning again. “I gotta throw up,” he told a woman officer. She brought him a waste paper basket and told him to use that. It got worse as he sat there. He tried to stretch out on two chairs, except that he couldn’t relax. He was cold. He was frightened. He heard voices and one sounded like someone he knew. He didn’t know if he wanted Bill to walk around the corner and find him, and if he’d be ashamed of being there. Dad blamed everything that happened on him telling Bill. He didn’t tell anyone anything. Would Bill be as mad at him because he didn’t tell? 
    “Man, I had no idea you were looking for him,” one man said. “I thought I was following a drunk. He pulled out the liquor store parking lot and almost hit three cars.” 
  “Called the grandmother,” another person said. “She was going to the hospital. Bastard punched her right in the mouth. Should I call Department of Children and Family Services?” 
    “No. I’ll take him home with me.”
   Bill rounded a corner a moment later. He crouched down to Mikey’s level, but that had to be just that moment his stomach decided to rebel. He grabbed his waste paper basket and heaved out everything in his stomach. Bill rubbed his back until he finished. “Hey, Mikey, easy,” Bill soothed. “It’s over.” 
    “My Mom?”
    “It doesn’t look good,” he said. 
    “What about my Dad?” 
    “Well, your Dad didn’t make it.” 
    Mikey nodded. How could he tell someone he was almost happy about that. “Are those people coming for me?” 
    “What people?” 
    “Like last time. When Tina and Cory went with me?”
    “No. You’re going back to my place.” He nodded at someone. “This is Jim Kirby. He’s going to drive you. Sophie’s waiting for you. You’d rather be with us, right?” 
    Mikey nodded. The cop that stood over him was different from the man that picked him off the roadside. 
    This one led him out of the station through a back dock. He sat in the front seat of the squad car, and promptly fell asleep. When he awoke, they were parked out­side Sophie and Bill’s house, and Sophie was waiting for him by the front door. She reached out to hug him, and he broke down in tears.

*

The doctor insisted he be uncuffed. "No," Felix objected. "He's dangerous.
“He’s nuts,” Ruth Ellen added. “I know that.”

The doctor insisted and the cuffs came off. Not thirty seconds later, Stubs took off, diving off the table, and darting out of the examination cell. Ruth Ellen and Felix hit the door frame at the same time. Stubs cut across the middle of the de­partment and behind a long desk. Ruth Ellen elbowed Felix in the stomach, knocking him backwards. She slipped through the door, and he followed. She went one way about the huge desk and Felix darted the other. Stubs spun about, knocking over stands and trays of paper work and anything else he could put be­tween him and them. He sent a monitor crashing to the ground and Felix tripped over it. Stubs turned suddenly, right into Ruth Ellen’s arms. Felix picked himself off the floor as Ruth Ellen knocked Stubs to the floor. Stubs continued to fight. She sat on him. Felix cuffed him again.

Stubs was checked and released in short order. He’d survive. He was also pissed off. “What the fuck are your problems?” He didn’t do anything. It wasn’t his fault. It was Willie. She burned down his garage. She ran off with that beaner. He didn’t need another beaner taking him in and accusing him of God knows what. He didn’t do anything. The little bastard continued to wriggle and fight. It took both officers to physically pick him up and drop him in the back of Felix’s squad.

Ruth Ellen climbed in the passenger side and Felix drove both back to the station house. Christ. Last thing on earth Felix wanted to do was spend the rest of his career listening to her about how she saved his ass one more time. When they pulled up in the sallyport, she helped him pull Stubs from the rear. Together, they pulled him inside and cuffed him with old fashioned metal cuffs that she took from her belt, one handed, to a bar beneath the bench they deposited him on. Ruth Ellen smiled at Felix, and pointed her fingers like they were part of a loaded gun. “Bang.”

*

Bill looked up at the pair, glancing from one to the other, and then back at Stubs. Bill had thirty pounds on Stubs, and both Ruth Ellen and Felix stood taller and weighed more than Bill. Here was Stubs, angry, growling and banging the metal cuffs against the bar as hard as he could. He barely had his ass on the bench. “You mean to tell me it took two of you?” Ruth Ellen smiled and Felix shrugged. Okay, so Ruth Ellen had something on him for a change. Bill wasn’t going to get involved. “Move him.” He nodded back. “Let’s go now.” He spun off towards the interrogation cells.

He heard a clang, like handcuffs banging off that metal bar be­neath the bench, and he heard a cry. When he spun back, he found Stubs in mo­tion. The bastard flew away from the pair. He raised the arm that had been hand­cuffed to the bar. Those same cuffs swung like a weapon from that wrist. It barely missed Ruth Ellen. She stepped back and Felix charged forward, his hands up and aiming towards the cuffs. Stubs stepped in. The prisoner timed it perfectly. He brought down his wrist as Felix lowered his hand. Stubs ducked. And bit. “You son-of-a-bitch!” Felix struggled, one hand caught tightly between Stub’s teeth and the other curled up and pounding on the bastard.

“Ruth Ellen!” Bill screamed.

The detective cried out in pain. He came down on one knee, nearly in tears. Ruth Ellen stepped forward, aiming at Stubs’ nose with two of her fingers. She literally jammed her fingers up his nose and knocked his head back. The bastard let go.

He tried again, turning about, but Ruth Ellen had him. She caught the handcuff while in flight, and latched onto his wrist. In one sweeping motion, she flipped him around, forcing his arm back and him to his knees. She maintained her grip and pulled the bastard to his feet. Then she led him off the closest interrogation cell.

“Callaghan!” Bill called, following Ruth Ellen. 

“Chief?”

When Callaghan appeared, Bill nodded at Felix. “Take care of him.”

Ruth Ellen forced Stubs into a seat, and handcuffed him again to a bar beneath his chair. Bill sat down opposite Stubs. “I’ll put this out on the table,” he said. “We have a pink Toyota Corola, three spent shells, and a receipt dated December 31st from White Castle for twenty hamburgers with cheese, a bunch of hamburger boxes with your fingerprints on them. And I have search warrants. Now where is she?”

“Who?”

“Willow Pratt.”

Stubs actually smiled. “Got me.”

“One way or another,” Bill commented. “One way or another.”

Stubs started again, trying to wiggle out of the chair. “That bitch burned down my garage! She burned up my car! She took it all away! She did it! She deserves what she got!”

“What did she get?”

“That bitch deserves what she got! She burned down my garage! She painted the floor pink! It’s her fault!”

*

Tim Ryan was sorry to miss the Stubs’ so called interrogation. Give him a few minutes with the weasel, and Tim was sure he could of gotten something constructive out of Stubs. If nothing else, he would have liked to have been the one to knock Stubs out, or jam his fingers up the bastard’s nose.

Instead, he served the search warrant. He drove one squad and Ruth Ellen followed in hers. Two K-9 units followed her. When they pulled to a stop outside of Stub’s house, the neighbors came out to watch. Some that Tim and Felix had interviewed earlier waved at him. He waved back. Others smiled knowingly.

Ruth Ellen opened the house’s side door, stepped in and quickly stepped out. “Wow,” she grimace. “Something’s dead in there.” She pushed in again.

Tim entered behind her and curled up his nose. The house seemed neat, swept and vacuumed. Even the kitchen sink had been emptied of dirty dishes. Still, something reeked, like meat left out in the sun and allowed to rot. Tim wondered if they wouldn’t find Willow Pratt spread out somewhere in the open. When the dogs entered, though, they went straight to a trash can, where inside was a pound of spoiled hamburger, still in the store wrapper. That was moved outside, and with it went most of the scent.

One of the handlers removed a sweater from the plastic bag he carried. The dogs were presented with it and their leads were removed. They searched the kitchen and found little. The same held true with the living room and the basement. The bedroom though, produced a nine millimeter handgun and a small bag of mari­juana.

“Christ,” Tim commented. “I hope the gun is unregistered. There isn’t enough grass to hold him on.”

They moved outside into the yard. Like the Forest Preserves, they found a wealth of beer cans. “Hey, Ruth Ellen,” Tim teased. “You’re saving cans, right? Turn them in for cash?”

“Just until I get my next promotion,” she returned, swiping at the small, blue chevrons on the cuff of her leather jacket. “What do you say we hit the garage?”

“How safe is it?” Tim asked, glancing downhill at the burned out shell.

The dogs and their handlers joined them. The men were intent on checking out the yard, but after presenting the sweater to the dogs again, the animals wanted something else. Their eyes were trained on the ruins and they strained at their col­lars. One yipped and tried to stand on his back legs. “Down, Hammer,” the handler soothed, patting the dog’s side. Once in a sitting position the handler unclipped the dog’s lead. Hammer took off downhill. With that the other handler allowed Kite his freedom.

“Find anything?” one of the neighbors called.

Tim moved aside, to talk with the man. “No. No. Nothing worth talking about.”

“You know there’s really something strange about this Red dude. Real strange.”

“How so?”

“With her gone, you’d think he’d be happy. Take it easy. She was always on his ass about something. No. Since she’s been gone, if he and that big guy he hangs out with aren’t out here drinking and staring at that garage, he’s working on something. He cleans better than she did. Always doing something. Doing floors, or windows. Hell, middle of that snow storm the two of them are out in the garage cementing the floor. Who pours cement in the middle of the winter?”

Tim mulled that over for a good few moments. “Good question,” he said at last. He turned away quickly. “Ruth Ellen!” He headed down hill towards the garage. Inside and dead center two dogs backed up into each other, and against the burned up wreck of a car. They sniffed at the floor. Tim sniffed. Something smelled sour. Kite scratched. Ruth Ellen took her flashlight from her belt and flipped it on. The dog dug, leaving huge scratches in pink paint. Then he raised his big mug to where the moon rose above the hole in the roof and howled. Hammer followed suit.

Tim took his cell phone from his pocket, and dialed. “Ramos,” the Chief an­swered.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” Tim began with a huge sigh, “But she’s in the floor of the garage.”

“You sure?”

“You tell me. I have two fools laying cement in the middle of the winter and two dogs standing in the middle of it now, howling and digging at it.”

“First thing in the morning,” Ramos growled. “Seal it off.”

***

By the time Bill got home that evening, Sophie should have been in bed. He un­dressed partially in the living room, leaving his hat, jacket and uniform shirt in a pile on his recliner. Then he headed to the kitchen for that beer she had offered him earlier. He left the light off, intentionally, trying not to wake anyone. Forget that. No sooner did he open the fridge than Sophie walked into the kitchen. “Sorry,” he commented, “I’m trying to be quiet.”

“You are. You are. I just can’t sleep when you’re not home.”

He held up the beer he took from the fridge, and closed the door. “This is my first. I didn’t stop anywhere.”

She nodded. “You made the news again.”

“The search?”

“That and that car accident by the refinery. Was that Mikey’s parents?”

He nodded and twisted the cap off the bottle. “Yeah.” He took a long drink. “There’s some sick people in this world. How’s Mikey?”

“Sick to his stomach most of the night. Is it over? Did you find her?”

“No, but we have a good idea where she’s at.”

She nodded at his beer. “You want to bring that to bed?”

“No, I want to get rip roaring drunk, and punch the fuck out of someone.”

Monday,

March 10th

The funniest thing about Dolly Parton’s music is that most people couldn’t carry those notes. The notes were pure, and perfectly pitched. The woman had a range that exhausted imagination.

So did Willow. When she sang, “I will always love you-ou-ou-ou...” Evelyn thought her knees would give in. There wasn’t a sweeter song in the universe. Something about it, though, told Evelyn what she didn’t want to admit to. Willow was at peace.

***

First thing in the morning, the Finance Director called. One more time, Bill’s overtime was over the top, and yesterday had to cost the City a fortune. If there was any way he could recover part of the cost, he better figure out how. Especially since they didn’t find a body. That, Bill decided, was what he hated most about this job. He had to make the search for a body fit into the budget.

He helped himself to a couple of Rolaids and left his office to his secretary’s care. He would be out there when they found Willow Pratt. And if the overtime proved to be too expensive, he’d dig her up himself.

As he passed through the lower floor on his way out, he heard Boca grum­bling at Callaghan. “This isn’t fair. It should have been my call. I should’ve been in charge of the search. Not Tim. For Christ’s sake he’s barely out of diapers. What if he missed something?”

“He wasn’t alone,” Callaghan cracked. “Ruth Ellen went with him.”

“Ruth Ellen. Now that’s real experience.”

“Uh huh. From what I understand, if she hadn’t pried that asshole’s mouth apart, you’d still be in there, kneeling on the floor and crying.”

Callaghan sat behind his desk, his hands tuck in opposite arm pits, and his foot across the opposite knee. Felix stood in front of Callaghan’s desk, pointing at him­self with a very swollen and bandaged hand. Rivulets of sweat ran off his forehead and his eyes floated in their sockets. Once upon a time Bill was bitten by a suspect. And very soon after he contracted a severe infection.

He entered Callaghan’s office. Both men tensed and Boca tried to back off. Bill took up Felix’s bandaged hand. The detective grimaced, his eyes rolling up in his head. “Get out of here,” Bill growled under his breath, “And get this taken care of.”

“It’s fine,” Felix returned. “Honest, Chief, it’s fine. I’m going with them this morning. Crack open that floor.”

“You’re going to the hospital. You give me any grief, I’ll have Ruth Ellen pick you up and carry you.”

“That’s not fair. This has been my baby for the past two months.”

“And now it’s Ryan’s baby. Go. Now.”

A very short time later, Bill and others watched a tow truck drag what was left of a metal shell from inside what once had been a garage. There wasn’t anything worth salvaging there. He scanned the rest of the garage, hoping that maybe he’d find something that was worth money, and then again, hoping that when his time came he wouldn’t burn in hell for such a callous attitude.

As a Public Works laborer charged up a gas powered jackhammer, the officers placed medical masks over their mouths and noses. The plan was to bore a few exploratory holes and to see what they would expose. But once the tip of the jackhammer as­sailed the pink cement, it crumbled like termite infested wood. Dead center cement turned to dust. As the dust was swept away, plastic popped out of the hole. The masks did little good in protecting them from the overpowering odor of rotting flesh that seeped out with the plastic. Well seasoned police offi­cers audibly choked. Ruth Ellen stepped outside. When the laborer turned off his engine, they could hear her vomit. Bill struggled with his own stom­ach.

It took a good few moments before someone ventured near the hole in the floor. Ryan went first. “Christ,” he whispered. “Why?”

*

Ruth Ellen took off once the Medical Examiner arrived and the body was re­moved. She told Callaghan she needed a few minutes to herself to regroup. She headed to Robbinson Memorial.

They told her in the emergency room that Boca had been admitted. Once in the lobby she obtained a pass to an upper floor room.

She found him in bed with an IV needle attached to the back of his good hand. “You here to rub it in?” he asked.

“Yeah, maybe I am.” She stood just inside the door to his room.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment and neither did she. Finally he asked. “Is it over?”

“Yeah. She was in the floor.”

He used his bandaged hand to wipe at his eyes. “My God, that’s sick.”

“Sure is.”

*

Mrs. Pratt identified instant photos of Willow by the clothing she wore, and by what was left of the tattoos on her back. Mr. Pratt said nothing at all. “The medical examiner will check her DNA,” Bill said quietly. “Just to be sure there’s no mistake.”

“There isn’t,” she whispered. “I knew it all along.” She shivered.

“I know it’s no consolation, but we have Stubs in custody. We’re charging him with murder.”

“What about Milk?”

“Gone. Car accident yesterday afternoon.”

Bill joined Stubs and Tim Ryan in an interrogation cell not long later. He wanted a confession before pressing charges. He wanted to close this out without any possibility that someone would find a hole in their evidence. Find a good defense.

“Milk, he’s a real sick son-of-a-bitch,” Stubs commented. “I saw him do it. I told him, too, he’d hang for it. Said he’d blow my brains out next if I told anybody. So I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut.”

“Whose idea was it to bury her in the floor?”

“Milk’s. You don’t think I’d come up with anything like that? Do you?”

No, Bill told himself, Stubs wasn’t horribly intelligent. If anything, he was more self-possessed. “Hump.” Bill studied this bastard for a good few moments. “I’d charge him with a homicide, only I have no fingerprints that place him at the scene, and he’d never stand trial. I guess we’ll pin it on you then.”

Stubs frowned at Bill, and cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll get him to admit to it.”

Another long moment passed. “One more time from the beginning. What happened?”

Bob Unsinger would announce to the press that Willow Pratt had been found, and that Robert Stubs had been arrested for her murder. Unsinger could get into the details of the accident the day before and how the incidents tied together. 

Bill needed time to regroup. Hell, they all did. Ruth Ellen went to see Felix; and Tim and Callaghan made plans to visit Pinkies’ that evening. As good as that sounded, Bill decided a long, hot shower would be more welcome, and maybe he should finally read that book that Tina asked him to read so long ago.

He stopped to see his wife on his way home. “You have plans for dinner?” he asked.

She shrugged as she watched the kids tear up and down the sidewalk in front of the school building. “Slow down, walk,” she called. She turned her attention back to him. “Hot dogs, pork chops, you tell me.”

“How does pizza sound?”

“Pizza? In or out?”

Bill shrugged. “Out? In? I don’t care. Spend some time with you and the kids. I need that right now.” She pulled herself up straighter, turning away from him, yet watching him all the same. “So, how’s Mikey?” he asked.

“My Mom stayed with him this morning. Take him to see Marie this afternoon if she could. Any word on Marie?”

Bill shook his head.          

A pair of girls came together with raised fists. Before it could start, his wife ex­pertly pulled them apart and sent them on their way. She turned towards him. “It’s all over then?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Good. Time for you to pull your mood out of your armpit and start acting human again.” She tapped his chest. “You’re just lucky I love you as much as I do. God help you I wouldn’t take this behavior from anyone else.”

“And I passed up an invitation to Pinkies’ for pizza with your crabby ass? Why is it every time you tell me you love me, there’s a but attached?”

“Guilarmo.”

“Sophia.”