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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

But Abby was crying. She no longer cared about keeping it together. She knew that just when her father had finally come back, he was about to leave.

Ten minutes later they were racing through Lathrup Village. Spencer tried not to think what they would do if their quarry was out. It struck him as unlikely on a weekday. Caitlyn Dunn seemed dedicated to her work, maybe a little too dedicated for her own good. And what if she had company? A boyfriend? And then, out of nowhere, while desperately looking for a house he’d seen only once in daylight, the thought hit him of how lucky that guy was, whoever he might be.

He saw Caitlyn’s Mini and pulled up. He killed the engine.

“We need to make this work,” he said quietly. He looked at her. “Are you with me, baby?”

She took his hand. Neither wanted to let go. With his other hand, Spencer fished the letter from his pocket and placed it in Abby’s. “Go.”

She grabbed the bag and got out, crossed the lawn, and rang Caitlyn’s bell. Moths and bugs buzzed around the porch light above as she waited. The frosted-glass window atop the door was suddenly illuminated from within.

Her eyes met Spencer’s and then he was gone.

Scott waded into a Hungry-Man Frozen Dinner while he talked shop on his work phone. This dinner ritual was an accurate reflection of how far his marriage had deteriorated of late, since his partner had done a Hemingway to be precise. It was as if Batiste had bequeathed not only sole responsibility for the McGrath investigation but also the overriding obsession that had gone with it.

If proof were needed that obsession bore results, he’d just been given plenty. At a quarter to nine he’d finally gotten a call telling him the Michigan State Police chopper would be available to him the following day. He’d laid it on with a trowel to get it a second time, and for as long as he needed it; this case was all the work of his late partner, Evan Batiste, one of Precinct Thirteen’s finest.

I got us the chopper, Evan. We’re gonna ride Burnham’s tail right to McGrath. We’ll send them all to the federal hotel.