The line gave six slow, mechanical rings before the system clicked over to his standard recording.

“You have reached Greg Whitman,” his recorded voice said, cool and polite.

“Please leave your name and a brief message, and I will return your call during normal business hours.”

I waited for the short electronic tone.

“Why are the papers dated September nineteenth, Greg?” I said into the phone, keeping my voice firm.

“We were at the apple orchard on October third.

You bought me a bag of Ginger Gold apples and kissed my cheek in the parking lot.”