"It was fourteen years ago," she said softly. "Don't you think it's time we moved on?"

He thought about what that "purely physical" night had cost him. Everything, maybe. His lifelong dream, for sure. "You're right," he said, turning away. "Please leave."

"I need your help."

He shook his head. "As you said, time to move on."

"Just have coffee with me. With an old friend."

He wanted to say no, but the past had too strong a pull. He nodded, afraid to speak. They drove in silence to Starbucks and ordered their complicated coffees from an artist-wannabe barista with more attitude than the guy who works at the local record store. They added whatever condiments at the little stand, playing a game of Twister by reaching across one another for the nonfat milk or Equal. They sat down in metal chairs with too-low backs. The sound system was playing reggae music, a CD entitled Jamaican Me Crazy.

Emily crossed her legs and took a sip. "Have you ever heard of Fanconi anemia?"

Interesting opening gambit. "No."

"It's an inherited anemia that leads to bone marrow failure. It weakens your chromosomes."

Myron waited.

"Are you familiar with bone marrow transplants?"

Strange line of questioning, but he decided to play it straight. "A little. A friend of mine had leukemia and needed a transplant. They had a marrow drive at the temple. We all went down and got tested."

"When you say 'we all'--"

"Mom, Dad, my whole family. I think Win went too."

She tilted her head. "How is Win?"

"The same."

"Sorry to hear that," she said. "When we were at Duke, he used to listen to us making love, didn't he?"

"Only when we pulled down the shade so he couldn't watch."

She laughed. "He never liked me."

"You were his favorite."

"Really?"

"That's not saying much," Myron said.

"He hates women, doesn't he?"

Myron thought about it. "As sex objects, they're fine. But in terms of relationships..."

"An odd duck."

She should only know.

Emily took a sip. "I'm stalling," she said.

"I sorta figured that."

"What happened to your friend with leukemia?"

"He died."

Her face went white. "I'm sorry. How old was he?"

"Thirty-four."

Emily took another sip, cradling the mug with both hands. "So you're listed with the bone marrow national registry?"

"I guess. I gave blood and they gave me a donor card."

She closed her eyes.

"What?" he asked.

"Fanconi anemia is fatal. You can treat it for a while with blood transfusions and hormones, but the only cure is a bone marrow transplant."

"I don't understand, Emily. Do you have this disease?"

"It doesn't hit adults." She put down her coffee and looked up. He was not big on reading eyes, but the pain was neon-obvious. "It hits children."

As though on cue, the Starbucks soundtrack changed to something instrumental and somber. Myron waited. It didn't take her long.

"My son has it," she said.

Myron remembered visiting the house in Franklin Lakes when Greg disappeared, the boy playing in the backyard with his sister. Must have been, what, two, three years ago. The boy was about ten, his sister maybe eight. Greg and Emily were in the midst of a bloody take-no-prisoners custody battle, the two children pinned down in the crossfire, the kind no one walks away from without a serious hit.