The Stolen - Jason Pinter [1]
Bonnie and Joe, Maggie Griffin and Terry Lucas. I still have
a lot to learn about this crazy thing called writing, but when
you've had friends like these, everything seems possible.
Linda McFall. Three down, and hopefully many, many
more to go. If I feel spoiled, it's your fault for being such a
terrific editor. Thanks also for your help on understanding
the (often frightening) mind of the American toddler.
Thank you again, ad infinitum.
To the booksellers and librarians who have made it possible
for people to read my stuff.
To everyone who's read one of my books, thanks for giving
me the greatest job in the world. You keeping reading 'em,
I'll keep writing 'em.
And to reporters around the world who risk so much to write
about good, evil and everything in between, Henry Parker
offers a sincere thank-you. He wouldn't be here without
your inspiration.
Dear Reader,
It is said that the most painful experience a parent can
endure is losing a child. The pain and anguish must be simply
incalculable. But what happens when a child presumed gone
forever returns suddenly with no explanation, no injuries and
no recollection of where they've been?
In The Stolen, Henry Parker must face perhaps the most
difficult, and most personal, story of his young career.
Because when he investigates the sudden reappearance
of ten-year-old Daniel Linwood, Henry soon realizes that
despite the jubilation of Daniel's parents, something far
more sinister is beginning to take shape. And as Henry fights
to uncover the truth, caught in the balance are a family, a
community and several people who will stop at nothing to
make sure those questions stay unanswered, and that Henry
is silenced--permanently.
I hope as you read The Stolen, you might ask yourself the
same question that drives Henry to find the truth: How far
would you go to protect your loved ones?
Enjoy The Stolen...
Jason Pinter
January 2008
Prologue
"Finished."
I saved the document and eased back in my chair. My
body had grown accustomed to long days and nights spent
in its discomfort. The last few months, I had arrived home
nearly every night with a sore tailbone or stiff back, wondering if the supplies department would turn a blind eye
and let me expense a newer model. Eventually I forgot
about it. Then one day, I noticed I hadn't thought about
the aches and pains in a long time. They were a part of me
now.
The past three days and nights had sped by in a blur of
keystrokes, Chinese food containers and discarded coffee
cups. I was on the kind of crash deadline that a year ago
would have had me sweating rivulets, but now barely
raised my pulse. The fact was, without those deadlines to
keep me focused, the pains might not have ebbed away.
Saving the file, I looked outside my window over
Rockefeller Plaza. The view had changed--bright morning into gauzy summer afternoon, fading into the kind of
New York night where the constant bright lights disguised
any sense of time.
Until recently, the night always heralded the end of my
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Jason Pinter
workday. I would file my story with Evelyn Waterstone,
the Gazette's Metro editor, pack up my things, throw some
goodbyes to my night-shift colleagues and one or two
guys at the sports desk who were putting together the box
scores, and head home to meet Amanda. Good conversation, a hot shower, maybe a movie or a show we'd
recorded, they'd all be waiting. Then I'd fall asleep with
a whisper of her hair across my face.
Amanda.
We met two years ago. Our introduction wasn't exactly
the setup for your average romantic comedy. Our paths
crossed while I was on the run after being falsely accused
of murder. I had nobody to turn to. Nowhere to go. And
just when the situation was at its bleakest, Amanda offered
a hand to me, a total stranger. She saved my life. She was
running from her own demons, having come from a broken
home, spending her childhood recapping her life in small
notebooks because she assumed everyone she met would
eventually abandon her. It was this that brought us
together.