A jolt of conscience woke me in the middle of the night. I sat up and switched on the lamp. Madeleine was softly snoring.
The digital voice of the phone’s inbox rambled through its spiel.
“Message one. Left at…”
“Hello, darling, it’s Dad…” I clicked off sending a mental apology to my father.
“Message two. Left at…”
“Dana…” The sudden rise of blood pressure in my head distorted Julian’s next words. I sat upright, taming slept-on hair with my free hand.
“Got your message – well, at least your hello. Are you all right? Call me again.”
That was all. I hit replay listening for something else, a clue to the emotion in his voice. I tried to recall the tone I might have heard him use when talking to a friend on the phone, or was it the way he sounded in more intimate moments with me? I want
