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Prologue

"Name?"

"Cass Cahill."

The man in the suit typed something into a device that vaguely resembled a computer, but was the size of an arcade game. "Where are you from?"

"Barrington, Maine," I said automatically. I refrained from adding the boredom capital of the USA, because something about the harsh, white light shining in my face and the cold gun against my temple deterred my usual caustic attitude.

Of course, when the suit guy asked "Do you know why you're here?" in his stupidly nondescript tone, I couldn't hold it back any longer. "Why I'm here? There is so much wrong with that question! I don't know where I am or even how I got here. And I certainly can't begin to fathom 'why!' I think it might be time for you to answer some of my questions."

Suit guy came into the light, so I could see his face. His lips were curled into a sneer, a combination of revulsion and fascination, as though I was a half-dead spider he was waiting to crush under his expensive loafer.

"'Ms. Cahill,'" he said patronizingly, "there is nothing that you need to know here, however, the information you have is of great significance to us."

I clenched my teeth, biting back a frustrated scream: "Then what do you need to know?"

"One thing only," he placed a tape recorder on the table before me. "Where is he?"

"Gone," I shook my head. "Long gone. That's all I know."

He put his hands on the table menacingly. "Oh, I would bet anything that you know much more than that. In fact, I would bet your life on it." The guard cocked the gun and pushed it harder against my head. I jerked away, and my hands strained against their bonds; I was handcuffed to the metal chair. "Would you?"

My mind raced, trying to comprehend the events of the past few days, to see their importance, and most of all, to unravel the mystery that he was. I couldn't see it. But a timeline was beginning to develop in my head, connecting everything into some logical order that had led me here, wherever "here" was. And why suit guy and whoever he worked for gave a half a crap, I didn't know, but if spilling my guts would keep me alive, I was willing to sing like a bird.

"Fine." The word was weighed down with the pain and exhaustion that had followed me all week. "But just for the record, it was that damn fool Mike Grezinsky's fault!"