e should have called her three years ago. Nowhe had no choice.Opening the center drawer o the old oak desk in his oce,Grady removed a olded piece o yellow notepaper and spreadit out at in ront o him. He rubbed his damp palms on hiskhaki pants and sighed out loud.The creases in the note were pliant and sot rom requentolding, the writing a bit aded. A name and two sets o num-bers, nothing more. But how many times had he slipped themrom the drawer, dialed all but the last digit and hung up?She was twenty years and a phone call away, yet there weremoments when he could eel her standing next to him, catchthe scent o her hair, hear an echo o her voice.How pathetic is that?He blew out another long breath and picked up the receiver,trying to ignore the knot in his stomach.I he thought about her long enough, a amiliar guilt wouldbore holes through the memory; anger would trickle in, pool,and eventually congeal into a sense o hopelessness and ailure.