Yes, yes, I'd send the private jet to you right now." David Cardwell's deep voice cracked mid-sentence as he clutched the receiver so tightly his knuckles whitened. A single drop of sweat rolled down his temple despite the room's arctic air conditioning.

She had reached out.

His granddaughter had reached out.

The photograph on his desk of Eleanor as a teenager, all sunshine smiles and windswept hair, seemed to glow in the afternoon light.

When the investigator had first delivered the ...