Chapter One
It was Saturday morning, November 3, and the fi rst thing I noticed when I entered my office was that my telephone message light was blinking. Since I’d left the building late the night before, it meant someone had called my extension during the night. Odd.
My name is Jack McGuane. I was thirty- four years old at the time. Melissa, my wife, was the same age. I assume you’ve heard my name, or seen my image on the news, al­though with everything going on in the world I can un­derstand if you missed me the first time. Our story, in the big scheme of things, is a drop in the river.
I was a Travel Development Specialist for the Denver Metro Convention and Visitors Bureau, the city agency charged with bidding on and hosting conventions and en­couraging tourism to Denver. Every city has one. I worked hard, often staying late and, if necessary, coming in on a Saturday. It’s important to me that I work hard, even in a bureaucratic environment where it’s not necessarily en­couraged or rewarded. You see, I’m not the smartest guy in the world, or the best educated. My background  doesn’t suit me for the job. But my ace in the hole is that I work harder than anyone around me, even when I don’t have to. I am the bane of an offi ce filled with bureaucrats, and I’m proud of it. It’s the only thing I’ve got.
 C.J. BOX
Before doing anything, though, I punched the button to retrieve my voice mail.
“Jack, this is Julie Perala. At the agency . . .”
I stared at the speaker. Her voice was tight, cautious, not the confident and compassionate Julie Perala from the adoption agency Melissa and I had spent hours with while we went through the long process of adopting An­gelina, our nine-month-old. My first thought was that we somehow owed them more money.
“Jack, I hate to call you at work on a Friday. I hope you get this and can call me back right away. I need to talk with you immediately—before Sunday, if possible.”
She left the agency number and her cell-phone num­ber, and I wrote them down.
Then: “Jack, I’m so sorry.”
After a few beats of silence, as if she wanted to say more but  wouldn’t or  couldn’t, she hung up.
I sat back in my chair, then listened to the message again and checked the time stamp. It had arrived at 8:45 Friday eve ning.
I tried the agency number first, not surprised that it went straight to voice mail. Then I called her cell.
“Yes?”
“Julie, this is Jack McGuane.”
“Oh.”
“You said to call immediately. You’ve got me scared here with your message. What’s going on?”
“You don’t know?”
“How would I know? Know what?”
There was anger and panic in her voice.
“Martin Dearborn hasn’t called you? He’s your attor­ney, isn’t he? Our lawyers  were supposed to call him. Oh dear.”
My heart sped up, and the receiver became slick in my hand. “Julie, I don’t know anything. Dearborn never
called. Please, what is this about?”
“God, I hate to be the one to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
A beat. “The biological father wants Angelina back.”
I made her repeat it in case I hadn’t heard correctly. She did.
“So what if he wants her back,” I said. “We adopted her. She’s our daughter now. Who cares what he wants?”
“You don’t understand—it’s complicated.”
I pictured Melissa and Angelina at home having a lazy Saturday morning. “Of course we’ll work this out,” I said. “This is all some kind of big misunderstanding. It’ll all be fine.” Despite my words, my mouth tasted like metal.
Said Julie, “The birth father never signed away parental custody, Jack. The mother did, but the father didn’t. It’s a terrible situation. Your lawyer should have explained all of this to you. I don’t want to be the one going over legalities because I’m not qualified. As I said, it’s complicated . . .”
“This cannot be happening,” I said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It  doesn’t make sense,” I said. “She’s been with us nine months. The birth mother selected us.”
“I know. I was there.”
“Tell me how to make this go away,” I said, sitting up in my chair, leaning over the desk. “Do we pay off the kid, or what?”
Julie was silent for a long time.
“Julie, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Meet me at your agency now.”
“I can’t.”
“You  can’t or you won’t?”
“I can’t. I shouldn’t even be talking with you. I should
 C.J. BOX
never have called. The lawyers and my executives said
not to make direct contact, but I felt I had to.”
“Why didn’t you call us at home?”
“I got cold feet,” she said. “You don’t know how much I wished I could erase that message I left for you.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, “but you  can’t walk away. I need to understand what you’re saying. You’ve got to work with me to make this kid go away. You owe us that.”
I heard a series of staccato sounds and thought the con­nection was going bad. Then I realized she was crying.
Finally, she said, “There’s a restaurant near here called Sunrise Sunset. On South Wadsworth. I can meet you there in an hour.”
“I might be a little late. I’ve got to run home and get Melissa. She’ll want to hear this. And on such short no­tice, we’ll probably have Angelina with us.”
“I was hoping . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Hoping what? That I  wouldn’t bring them?”
“Yes. It makes it harder . . . I was hoping maybe you and I could meet alone.”
I slammed the phone down. Stunned, I wrote down the address of the restaurant.
I sensed Linda Van Gear’s arrival before she leaned into my office. She had a presence that preceded her. It could also be called very strong perfume, which she seemed to push ahead in front of her, like a surging trio of small, leashed dogs. Linda was my boss.
She was an imposing, no-nonsense woman, a force of nature. Melissa once referred to Linda as “a carica­ture of a broad.” Linda was brash, made-up, coiffed with a swept-back helmet of stiff hair like the overlapping ar­mored plates of a prehistoric dinosaur. She looked like she wore suits with shoulder pads, but they  were her shoul­ders. Her lips  were red, red, red, and there was usually a lipstick line across the front of her teeth, which she moist­ened often with darts from a pointed tongue. Linda, like a lot of the people who worked international tourism mar­keting, had once had dreams of being an actress or at least some kind of indefinable celebrity, someone who judged amateurs on a reality singing show. Linda was not well liked by the women in our office or by many in the tour­ism industry, but I got along with her. I got a kick out of her because...