Chick Baldwin did as they asked.

The FBI, of course, had full surveillance on the park, all entrances and exits covered. They had also put a GPS in the bag, though a decade ago, that technology was slightly more rudimentary than it would be today.

Up until this point, the authorities had done a good job of keeping the abductions a secret. No media found out. At the urging of the FBI, no friends or family members, including Win, were contacted. Even the other Baldwin and Moore children were kept in the dark.

Chick Baldwin dropped off the money and drove away. An hour passed. Then two. During hour three, someone picked up the bag, but that ended up being a Good Samaritan jogger who planned to bring it to lost and found.

No one else picked up the ransom money.

The families gathered around Chick Baldwin’s computer and waited for another email. In the meantime, the FBI pursued a few theories. First, they took a hard look at Vada Linna, the young au pair, but there was nothing there. She had been in the country only two months and barely spoke English. She had only one friend. They scoured her emails, her texts, her online history, and came up with nothing suspicious.

The FBI also looked at the four parents. The only one who gave them serious pause was Rhys’s father, Chick Baldwin. The ransom emails had come to Chick, but more than that, Chick was something of an unsavory character. There were two cases of insider trading and several lawsuits involving embezzlement. Some claimed that he ran a Ponzi scheme. Clients—some of whom were powerful—were upset.

But upset enough to do something like this?

So they waited for word from the kidnappers. Another day passed. Then two. Then three, four. Not a word. A week went by.

Then a month. A year.

Ten years.

And nothing. No sign of either boy.

Until now.

Myron sat back as the credits rolled. Mee sauntered over and looked down at him.

“I think I’ll have that cognac now,” he said.

“Right away.”

When she came back, Myron said, “Sit down, Mee.”

“I don’t think so.”

“When was the last time you saw Win?”

“I am paid to be discreet.”

Myron bit back the wisecrack. “There were rumors,” he said. “About Win, I mean. I was worried.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“So respect his privacy.”

“I’ve been doing that for the last year.”

“Then what’s a few more hours?”

She was right, of course.

“You miss him,” Mee said.

“Of course.”

“He loves you, you know.”

Myron said nothing.

“You should try to get some sleep.”

She was right about that too. He closed his eyes, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come. A close friend had recently convinced Myron to take up Transcendental Meditation, and while he wasn’t sure he completely bought into it, the simplicity and ease made it perfect for those moments when sleep eluded him. He set his Meditation Timer app—yes, he had one on his phone—for twenty minutes, closed his eyes, and started to sink down.