It was unsigned. That meant she knew who sent her the letter. Anonymity was as strong a signature as any written name.

By the side of Ashley’s bed was a pink telephone. He picked it up and dialed her cell phone number.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Dad! What’s up?”

Her voice was filled with youth, enthusiasm, and trust. He breathed out slowly, instantly reassured.

“What’s up with you?” he asked. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

A momentary hesitation.

He didn’t like that.

“Not too much. School is fine. Work is, well, work. But you know all that. In fact, nothing seems to have changed since I was home the other week.”

He took a deep breath. “I hardly saw you. And we didn’t get much chance to talk. I just wanted to make sure that everything is okay. No troubles with the new boss or any of your professors? Have you heard anything from that program you’ve applied to?”

Again, she paused. “No. Nothing really.”

He coughed once. “How about boys? Men, I guess. Anything I should know about?”

She did not immediately answer.

“Ashley?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Nothing, really. Nothing special. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He waited, but she didn’t say anything else.

“Is there something you want to tell me about?” he asked.

“No. Not really. So, Dad, what’s with the third degree?”