His phone vibrated. Another text message, this time from Terese: Got a job interview in Jackson Hole. For prime time anchor slot.

This was great news. Myron wrote back: Wow, that’s terrific.

Terese: Heading to owner’s ranch on his private plane tomorrow.

Myron: Great. I’m thrilled for you.

Terese: I don’t have the job.

Myron: You’ll kill the interview.

Terese: He can be a little handsy.

Myron: And I can kill him.

Terese: Love you, you know.

Myron: Love you too. But I mean it about killing him if he gets handsy.

Terese: You always know just what to say.

Myron was smiling. He was about to text a comeback when something caught his eye.

Or someone.

Nancy Moore, Patrick’s mother, had just entered the coffee shop. He typed a quick “Have to run” and hit send.

Where Brooke Baldwin was all strength and resolve, Nancy Moore looked small and drained. Her blond hair was pulled back into a rushed ponytail, the grays poking free. She wore a baggy sweatshirt with the word LONDON across the front, the L being formed by an old phone box and a double-decker bus. She had probably rush-packed and bought it at some tourist shop when she arrived.

Nancy Moore said something low to the barista, who gestured that he couldn’t hear her by putting his hand to his ear. She repeated her order and then started fumbling in her purse for some money.

Myron stood. “Mrs. Moore?”

His voice startled her. The coins fell from her hand and landed on the floor. Myron bent down to pick them up. Nancy started to follow, but it was as though the effort was too much for her. Myron stood up and dropped the coins into her hand.

“Thank you.”

Nancy Moore stared at him for a moment. An odd look crossed her face. Was it recognition? Surprise? Both?

“You’re Myron Bolitar,” she said.

“Yes.”

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Once,” Myron said.

“At . . .” She stopped. It had been at the Baldwin home, the site of the awful event, maybe a month after the kidnapping. Win and Myron had been called in too late. “You’re Win’s friend.”

“Yes.”

“And you . . . you’re the one who . . .” She blinked, looked down. “How do I even begin to thank you for saving my boy?”

Myron blew past that. “How’s Patrick doing?”

“Physically, he’ll be fine.”

The barista came back over with two coffees in to-go cups. He placed them down in front of her.

“You saved his life,” she said. There was awe in her voice. “You saved my son’s life.”

“I’m glad he’ll be okay,” Myron replied. “I hear he’s awake?”

Nancy Moore didn’t reply right away. When she did, she said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How much do you remember of your life before you turned six?”

He knew where this was going, but he went there anyway. “Not much.”

“And how about between the ages of six and sixteen?”