The Examiner building is humming like a beehive, but I see no sign of Caitlin as I pass through the newsroom. I go straight to the conference room, which at the moment contains two female reporters poring over the Marston files, patiently separating wheat from chaff.

“Ladies, could I have the room for a few minutes?”

They look up at me like graduate students disturbed in their library carrels, then blink and look at each other.

“Uh, sure,” says the one wearing glasses.

As soon as the door closes, I tear through the stacks of paper on the table, looking for something that seemed trivial only two days ago: the scrawled note listing the income Marston realized from private adoptions. Yesterday it was just another scrap of paper among thousands. Now it’s my personal Rosetta stone.

It’s not on the table.

I drop to my knees and start working through the carefully stacked piles on the floor, shoving aside page after page, letting them fall where they will. In five minutes the room is awash in paper, and sweat is running down my face. In ten I am trying to suppress the furious panic of an Alzheimer’s patient who sets down his car keys and can’t find them five seconds later.

And then I am holding the damn thing.

One sheet of yellow legal paper, with a column of years beginning in 1972 and continuing to the present. Some years aren’t listed, but beside each that is, an amount of money is noted. The highest figures correspond to the 1980s, and some of these are followed by a one-digit number in parentheses, which probably indicates the number of adoptions handled in that year. Beside the year 1978 is written the figure $35,000.

Jenny Doe is telling the truth.

The weight of this knowledge is staggering, but before I can begin to absorb it, the door to the conference room opens a crack, and Caitlin walks in, her face flushed with excitement.

“I just heard you were here. Listen to this. My father called twenty minutes ago. He found out why Dwight Stone won’t testify for us.”

I fold the scrap of legal paper and slip it into my pocket. “Why?”

“Stone has a daughter.”

“So? I have a daughter too.” Maybe two.

“Your daughter’s not an FBI agent.”

The scrap of paper is momentarily forgotten. “Dwight Stone has a daughter in the FBI?”

A triumphant smile lights Caitlin’s face. “Ten years in. John Portman can ruin her career with a single reassignment, and he can make it the same way.”

It had to be something like this. In Colorado I had gotten such an impression of integrity from Dwight Stone that I couldn’t fathom what would keep him from helping me expose the truth of what happened here in 1968. But children make us all vulnerable. They’re hostages to fortune, as the poet said.

“Hostages to fortune?” says Caitlin.