Bob opened his fingers, dropping the receiver onto the hook. He slumped back into his chair, the clock on the wall showing two, and watched the hands — the gentle twirl of thin seconds and the creeping jerk of long minutes — as they closed like scissors on two eleven.
“Gracken.” He snorted. “Luther Gracken.”
Weary with expectation, he rolled his chair away from the desk, stood up, and walked out of his study. Sheila…