“Definitely not this guy,” Miles said, holding the photo that Edwards had sent over. Frankel gave Miles his card and told him to call if he saw any sign of Leeds.

Minutes later, the two cops stood outside the bar, equally frustrated.

“We’re getting a line on the calls coming into that phone back at the halfway house to see if one lines up with Ferguson,” Frankel told the commander.

It wasn’t like Grant had another bright idea. He had tried Ferguson again and once again it had gone directly to voice mail.

They began canvassing the shops and streets near Connolly’s to see if anyone had spotted Leeds. Being the peak of winter, this part of Far Rockaway resembled a ghost town. Most shops were shuttered for the season, and the few yearlong denizens they spoke to had been cooped up all morning, not brave enough to confront the close-to-freezing temperatures.

Grant was in a tiny corner grocery ordering hot tea when his cell rang.

Monte Ferguson’s name appeared on the mobile screen.

Grant took the call immediately. “Where have you been all morning?”

“Talking to the press. Print. Television. Online bloggers,” answered the Mail man. “What did you think I’d be doing? Or haven’t you seen the news today?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it.”

“Sorry if it’s caused you any inconvenience,” Ferguson said.

That’s one big fat lie.

“Are you on your way to Far Rockaway to talk to Timothy Alan Leeds?”

“Far Rockaway? I don’t even know what or where that is,” responded Ferguson. “And who the hell is Timothy Alan Leeds?”

This time, it was excruciating pain that woke Timothy.

Worse than any he had experienced in his forty-seven years, emanating from the center of his forehead. Blood dripped into both of his eyes.

He tried to bring his hands up and wipe it away, but they were still tied behind his back. And his mouth continued to be sealed tight with the duct tape.

Timothy violently shook his head, clearing enough blood from his eyes to make out the hideous shape of his captor standing inches away from his face.

The man was wearing plastic gloves and held a knife dripping with blood.

Timothy’s blood.

“Figured that might bring you around,” the man said. He made a grandiose motion with the knife. “Bring back old memories?”

The first thing Timothy noticed were the stone walls and metal door. He started to shake uncontrollably.

“They don’t have actual cells here,” explained his captor. “I think they’re more like holding rooms for their ‘problem children.’ Seemed appropriate.”

Suddenly, the man spun Timothy around 180 degrees in a swivel chair.

Timothy saw the wall behind him for the first time.

It was covered with old newspapers and photos. All featured either Timothy, his parents, or their dead bodies. The headlines practically screamed at him—Teen Brutally Murders Parents and Leeds Gets Fifty Years—Is It Enough?