{"product_id":"caught-isbn-9780451237989","title":"Caught","description":"\u003cb\u003eNOW A NETFLIX SERIES • The bestselling author and creator of the hit Netflix dramas \u003ci\u003eMissing You\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eFool Me Once\u003c\/i\u003e a twisted #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller about a man who—with the best of intentions—opens the wrong door...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eReporter Wendy Tynes is making a name for herself, bringing down sexual offenders on nationally televised sting operations. But when social worker Dan Mercer walks into her trap, Wendy gets thrown into a story more complicated than she could ever imagine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDan is tied to the disappearance of a seventeen-year-old New Jersey girl, and the shocking consequences will have Wendy doubting her instincts about the motives of the people around her, while confronting the true nature of guilt, grief, and her own capacity for forgiveness... | \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eCaught\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The thrill-a-minute action zooms on sharp, slippery twists and turns in a white-knuckle race from start to finish.”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Nora Roberts \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “With \u003ci\u003eCaught\u003c\/i\u003e, Harlan Coben knocked another one out of the park!”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Lisa Jackson \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A Tilt-A-Whirl of a story....Buckle up and prepare for whiplash.”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Sandra Brown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Quite simply, Harlan Coben is one of my favorite authors. His books have it all: nail-biting suspense, roller-coaster plots, relevant social issues, and pitch-perfect characters.”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author Kristin Hannah\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCaught\u003c\/i\u003e is dark-hearted, quintessential Coben...guaranteed to make you both look over your shoulder and sign up with the good guys.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author Luanne Rice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is Harlan Coben at his best.”—The Huffington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] tour de force of storytelling...All the secrets interlock and reinforce each other like tiles in a  grand and seamless mosaic.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post \u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cb\u003eHarlan Coben\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eand international bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including \u003ci\u003eI Will Find You\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Match\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eWin\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFool Me Once\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eStay Close\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as the award-winning Myron Bolitar series. Coben has more than eighty million books in print in more than forty languages worldwide, and several of his novels have been made into Netflix series. The winner of Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, he lives in New Jersey. | \u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePart One\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 3\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 4\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 5\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 7\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 9\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 10\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 11\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 12\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 13\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 14\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 15\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 17\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 18\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 19\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 20\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 21\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 22\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 23\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 24\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePart Two\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 25\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 26\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 27\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 28\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 29\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 30\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 31\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 32\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 33\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 34\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 35\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 36\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 37\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 38\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEpilogue\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eExcerpt from \u003ci\u003eStay Close\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eExcerpt from \u003ci\u003eSix Years\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eALSO BY HARLAN COBEN\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDeal Breaker\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDrop Shot\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFade Away\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBack Spin\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOne False Move\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Final Detail\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDarkest Fear\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eTell No One\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGone for Good\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo Second Chance\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJust One Look\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Innocent\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePromise Me\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Woods\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHold Tight\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLong Lost\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDUTTON\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePublished by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePublished by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst printing, March 2010\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCopyright © 2010 by Harlan Coben\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eREGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA has been applied for.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eISBN: 9781101186053\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePUBLISHER’S NOTE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithout limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFor Anne\u003cbr\u003e From the luckiest guy in the world\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePROLOGUE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI KNEW opening that red door would destroy my life.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYes, that sounds melodramatic and full of foreboding and I’m not big on either, and true, there was nothing menacing about the red door. In fact, the door was beyond ordinary, wood and fourpaneled, the kind of door you see standing guard in front of three out of every four suburban homes, with faded paint and a knocker at chest level no one ever used and a faux brass knob.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut as I walked toward it, a distant streetlight barely illuminating my way, the dark opening yawning like a mouth ready to gobble me whole, the feeling of doom was unshakable. Each step forward took great effort, as if I were walking not along a somewhat crackled walk but through still-wet cement. My body displayed all the classic symptoms of impending menace: Chill down my spine? Check. Hairs standing up on my arms? Yep. Prickle at the base of the neck? Present. Tingle in the scalp? Right there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe house was dark, not a single light on. Chynna warned me that would be the case. The dwelling somehow seemed a little too  cookie-cutter, a little too nondescript. That bothered me for some reason. This house was also isolated at the tippy end of the cul-de-sac, hunkering down in the darkness as though fending off intruders.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t like it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t like anything about this, but this is what I do. When Chynna called I had just finished coaching the inner-city fourth-grade Newark Biddy Basketball team. My team, all kids who, like me, were products of foster care (we call ourselves the NoRents, which is short for No Parents—gallows humor), had managed to blow a six-point lead with two minutes left. On the court, as in life, the NoRents aren’t great under pressure.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChynna called as I was gathering my young hoopsters for my postgame pep talk, which usually consisted of giving my charges some life-altering insight like “Good effort,” “We’ll get them next time,” or “Don’t forget we have a game next Thursday,” always ending with “Hands in” and then we yell, “Defense,” choosing to chant that word, I suppose, because we play none.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dan?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who is this?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s Chynna. Please come.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer voice trembled, so I dismissed my team, jumped in my car, and now I was here. I hadn’t even had time to shower. The smell of gym sweat mixed now with the smell of fear sweat. I slowed my pace.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat was wrong with me?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI probably should have showered, for one thing. I’m not good without a shower. Never have been. But Chynna had been adamant. Now, she had begged. Before anyone got home. So here I was, my  gray T-shirt darkened with perspiration and clinging to my chest, heading to that door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike most youngsters I work with, Chynna was seriously troubled, and maybe that was what was setting off the warning bells. I hadn’t liked her voice on the phone, hadn’t really warmed to this whole setup. Taking a deep breath, I glanced behind me. In the distance, I could see some signs of life on this suburban night—house lights, a flickering television or maybe computer monitor, an open garage door—but in this cul-de-sac, there was nothing, not a sound or movement, just a hush in the dark.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy cell phone vibrated, nearly making me jump out of my skin. I figured that it was Chynna, but no, it was Jenna, my ex-wife. I hit answer and said, “Hey.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Can I ask a favor?” she asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m a little busy right now.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I just need someone to babysit tomorrow night. You can bring Shelly if you want.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Shelly and I are, uh, having trouble,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Again? But she’s great for you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I have trouble holding on to great women.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t I know it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJenna, my lovely ex, has been remarried for eight years. Her new husband is a well-respected surgeon named Noel Wheeler. Noel does volunteer work for me at the teen center. I like Noel and he likes me. He has a daughter by a previous marriage, and he and Jenna have a six-year-old girl named Kari. I’m Kari’s godfather, and both kids call me Uncle Dan. I’m the family go-to babysitter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI know this all sounds very civilized and Pollyanna, and I suppose it is. In my case, it could be simply a matter of necessity. I have no  one else—no parents, no siblings—ergo, the closest thing I have to family is my ex-wife. The kids I work with, the ones I advocate for and try to help and defend, are my life, and in the end I’m not sure I do the slightest bit of good.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJenna said, “Earth to Dan?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll be there,” I said to her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Six thirty. You’re the best.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJenna made a smooching noise into the mouthpiece and hung up. I looked at the phone for a moment, remembered our own wedding day. It was a mistake for me to get married. It is a mistake for me to get too close to people, and yet I can’t help it. Someone cue the violins so I can wax philosophical about how it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I don’t think that applies to me. It is in humans’ DNA to repeat the same mistakes, even after we know better. So here I am, the poor orphan who scraped his way up to the top of his class at an elite Ivy League school but never really scraped off who he was. Corny, but I want someone in my life. Alas, that is not my destiny. I am a loner who isn’t meant to be alone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“We are evolution’s garbage, Dan. . . .”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy favorite foster “dad” taught me that. He was a college professor who loved to get into philosophical debates.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Think about it, Dan. Throughout mankind, the strongest and brightest did what? They fought in wars. That only stopped this past century. Before that, we sent our absolute best to fight on the front lines. So who stayed home and reproduced while our finest died on distant battlefields? The lame, the sick, the weak, the crooked, the cowardly—in short, the least of us. That’s what we are the genetic by-product of, Dan—millenniums of weeding out the premium and keeping the flotsam. That’s why we are all garbage—the dung from centuries of bad breeding.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI forwent the knocker and rapped on the door lightly with my knuckles. The door creaked open a crack. I hadn’t realized that it was ajar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t like that either. A lot I didn’t like here.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs a kid, I watched a lot of horror movies, which was strange because I hated them. I hated things jumping out at me. And I really couldn’t stand movie gore. But I would still watch them and revel in the predictably moronic behavior of the heroines, and right now those scenes were replaying in my head, the ones where said moronic heroine knocks on a door and it opens a little and you scream, “Run, you scantily clad bimbo!” and she wouldn’t and you couldn’t understand it and two minutes later, the killer would be scooping out her skull and munching on her brain.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI should go right now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn fact, I will. But then I flashed back to Chynna’s call, to the words she’d said, the trembling in her voice. I sighed, leaned my face toward the opening, peered into the foyer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDarkness.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEnough with the cloak and dagger.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Chynna?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy voice echoed. I expected silence. That would be the next step, right? No reply. I slipped the door open a little, took a tentative step forward. . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dan? I’m in the back. Come in.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe voice was muffled, distant. Again I didn’t like this, but there was no way I was backing out now. Backing out had cost me too much throughout my life. My hesitation was gone. I knew what had to be done now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOthers in my position would have brought a gun or some kind of weapon. I had thought about it. But that just doesn’t work for me. No time to worry about that now. No one was home. Chynna had told me that. And if they were, well, I would handle that when the moment came.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Chynna?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Go to the den, I’ll be there in a second.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe voice sounded . . . off. I saw a light at the end of the hall and moved toward it. There was a noise now. I stopped and listened. Sounded like water running. A shower maybe.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Chynna?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just changing. Out in a second.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI moved into the low-lit den. I saw one of those dimmer-switch knobs and debated turning it up, but in the end I chose to leave it alone. My eyes adjusted pretty quickly. The room had cheesy wood paneling that looked as if it were made from something far closer to vinyl than anything in the timber family. There were two portraits of sad clowns with huge flowers on their lapels, the kind of painting you might pick up at a particularly tacky motel’s garage sale. There was a giant open bottle of no-name vodka on the bar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI thought I heard somebody whisper.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Chynna?” I called out.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo answer. I stood, listened for more whispering. Nothing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI started toward the back, toward where I heard the shower running.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll be right out,” I heard the voice say. I pulled up, felt a chill. Because now I was closer to the voice. I could hear it better. And here was the thing I found particularly strange about it:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt didn’t sound at all like Chynna.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThree things tugged at me. One, panic. This wasn’t Chynna. Get  out of the house. Two, curiosity. If it wasn’t Chynna, who the hell was it and what was going on? Three, panic again. It had been Chynna on the phone—so what had happened to her?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI couldn’t just run out now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI took one step toward where I’d come in, and that was when it all happened. A spotlight snapped on in my face, blinding me. I stumbled back, hand coming up to my face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dan Mercer?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI blinked. Female voice. Professional. Deep tone. Sounded oddly familiar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who’s there?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly there were other people in the room. A man with a camera. Another with what looked like a boom mike. And the female with the familiar voice, a stunning woman with chestnut brown hair and a business suit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Wendy Tynes, \u003ci\u003eNTC News\u003c\/i\u003e. Why are you here, Dan?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI opened my mouth, nothing came out. I recognized the woman from that TV newsmagazine . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why have you been conversing online in a sexual manner with a thirteen-year-old girl, Dan? We have your communications with her.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e. . . the one that sets up and catches pedophiles on camera for all the world to see.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Are you here to have sex with a thirteen-year-old girl?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe truth of what was going on there hit me, freezing my bones. Other people flooded the room. Producers maybe. Another cameraman. Two cops. The cameras came in closer. The lights got brighter. Beads of sweat popped up on my brow. I started to stammer, started to deny.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut it was over.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTwo days later, the show aired. The world saw.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd the life of Dan Mercer, just as I somehow knew it would be when I approached that door, was destroyed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWHEN MARCIA MCWAID FIRST SAW HER daughter’s empty bed, panic did not set in. That would come later.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe had woken up at six AM, early for Saturday morning, feeling pretty terrific. Ted, her husband of twenty years, slept in the bed next to her. He lay on his stomach, his arm around her waist. Ted liked to sleep with a shirt on and no pants. None. Nude from the waist down. “Gives my man down there room to roam,” he would say with a smirk. And Marcia, imitating her daughters’ teenage singsong tone, would say, “T-M-I”—Too Much Information.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMarcia slipped out of his grip and padded down to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of coffee with the new Keurig pod machine. Ted loved gadgets—boys and their toys—but this one actually got some use. You take the pod, you stick it in the machine—presto, coffee. No video screens, no touch pad, no wireless connectivity. Marcia loved it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey’d recently finished an addition on the house—one extra bedroom, one bathroom, the kitchen knocked out a bit with a glassed-in nook. The kitchen nook offered oodles of morning sun and had thus become Marcia’s favorite spot in the house. She took her coffee and the newspaper and set herself on the window seat, folding her feet beneath her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA small slice of heaven.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe let herself read the paper and sip her coffee. In a few minutes she would have to check the schedule. Ryan, her third grader, had  the early Hoops Basketball game at eight AM. Ted coached. His team was winless for the second straight season.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why do your teams never win?” Marcia had asked him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I draft the kids based on two criteria.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That being?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How nice the father—and how hot the mom.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe had slapped at him playfully, and maybe Marcia would have been somewhat concerned if she hadn’t seen the moms on the sideline and knew, for certain, that he had to be joking. Ted was actually a great coach, not in terms of strategy but in terms of handling the boys. They all loved him and his lack of competitiveness so that even the untalented players, the ones who were usually discouraged and quit during the season, showed up every week. Ted even took the Bon Jovi song and turned it around: “You give losing a good name.” The kids would laugh and cheer every basket, and when you’re in third grade that’s how it should be.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMarcia’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Patricia, had rehearsal for the freshman play, an abridged version of the musical \u003ci\u003eLes Misérables\u003c\/i\u003e . She had several small parts, but that didn’t seem to affect the workload. And her oldest child, Haley, the high school senior, was running a “captain’s practice” for the girls’ lacrosse team. Captain’s practices were unofficial, a way to sneak in early practices under the guidelines issued by high school sports. In short, no coaches, nothing official, just a casual gathering, a glorified pickup game if you will, run by the captains.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike most suburban parents, Marcia had a love-hate relationship with sports. She knew the relative long-term irrelevancy and yet still managed to get caught up in it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA half hour of peace to start the day. That was all she needed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe finished the first cup, pod-made herself a second, picked up  the “Styles” section of the paper. The house remained silent. She padded upstairs and looked over her charges. Ryan slept on his side, his face conveniently facing the door so that his mother could notice the echo of his father.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePatricia’s room was next. She too was still sleeping.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Honey?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePatricia stirred, might have made a noise. Her room, like Ryan’s, looked as if someone had strategically placed sticks of dynamite in the drawers, blowing them open; some clothes sprawled dead on the floor, others lay wounded midway, clinging to the armoire like the fallen on a barricade before the French Revolution.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Patricia? You have rehearsal in an hour.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m up,” she groaned in a voice that indicated she was anything but. Marcia moved to the next room, Haley’s, and took a quick peek.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe bed was empty.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was also made, but that was no surprise. Unlike her siblings’ abodes, this one was neat, clean, anally organized. It could be a showroom in a furniture store. There were no clothes on this floor, every drawer fully closed. The trophies—and there were many—were perfectly aligned on four shelves. Ted had put in the fourth shelf just recently, after Haley’s team had won the holiday tournament in Franklin Lakes. Haley had painstakingly divided up the trophies among the four shelves, not wanting the new one to have only one. Marcia was not sure why exactly. Part of it was because Haley didn’t want it to look like she was just waiting for more to come, but more of it was her general abhorrence of disorganization. She kept each trophy equidistant from the others, moving them closer together as more came in, three inches separating them, then two, then one. Haley was about balance. She was the  good girl, and while that was a wonderful thing—a girl who was ambitious, did her homework without being asked, never wanted others to think badly of her, was ridiculously competitive—there was a tightly wound aspect, a quasi-OCD quality, that worried Marcia.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMarcia wondered what time Haley had gotten home. Haley didn’t have a curfew anymore because there had simply never been a need. She was responsible and a senior and never took advantage. Marcia had been tired and gone up to sleep at ten. Ted, in his constant state of “randy,” soon followed her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMarcia was about to move on, let it go, when something, she couldn’t say what, made her decide to throw in a load of laundry. She started toward Haley’s bathroom. The younger siblings, Ryan and Patricia, believed that “hamper” was a euphemism for “floor” or really “anyplace but the hamper,” but Haley, of course, dutifully, religiously, and nightly put the clothes she’d worn that day into the hamper. And that was when Marcia started to feel a small rock form in her chest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere were no clothes in the hamper.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe rock in her chest grew when Marcia checked Haley’s toothbrush, then the sink and shower.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll bone-dry.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe rock grew when she called out to Ted, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. It grew when they drove to captain’s practice and found out that Haley had never showed. It grew when she called Haley’s friends while Ted sent out an e-mail blast—and no one knew where Haley was. It grew when they called the local police, who, despite Marcia’s and Ted’s protestations, believed that Haley was a runaway, a kid blowing off some steam. It grew when, forty-eight hours later, the FBI was brought in. It grew when there was still no sign of Haley after a week.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was as if the earth had swallowed her whole.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA month passed. Nothing. Then two. Still no word. And then finally, during the third month, word came—and the rock that had grown in Marcia’s chest, the one that wouldn’t let her breathe and kept her up nights, stopped growing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePART ONE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eCHAPTER 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHREE MONTHS LATER\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“DO YOU PROMISE to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWendy Tynes said that she did, took the stand, looked out. She felt as though she were onstage, something she was somewhat used to, what with being a television news reporter and all, but this time it made her squirm. She looked out and saw the parents of Dan Mercer’s victims. Four sets of them. They were there every day. At first they’d brought photographs of their children, the innocent ones of course, holding them up, but the judge had made them stop. Now they sat silently, watching, and somehow that was even more intimidating.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe seat was uncomfortable. Wendy adjusted her position, crossed then uncrossed her legs, and waited.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair Hickory, celebrity counsel for the defense, stood, and not for the first time, Wendy wondered how Dan Mercer had the money  to afford him. Flair wore his customary gray suit with thick pink stripes, pink shirt, pink tie. He crossed the room in a way that might be modestly described as “theatrical,” but it was more like something Liberace might have done if Liberace had the courage to be really flamboyant.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Ms. Tynes,” he began with a welcoming smile. This was part of Flair’s style. He was gay, yes, but he played it up in court like Harvey Fierstein in leather chaps doing Liza jazz hands. “My name is Flair Hickory. Good morning to you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Good morning,” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You work for a lurid tabloid TV program called \u003ci\u003eCaught in the Act,\u003c\/i\u003e is that correct?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe prosecuting attorney, a man named Lee Portnoi, said, “Objection. It’s a TV program. There has been no testimony to support the allegation that the program is either lurid or tabloid.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair smiled. “Would you like me to present evidence, Mr. Portnoi?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That won’t be necessary,” Judge Lori Howard said in a voice that already sounded weary. She turned to Wendy. “Please answer the question.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t work for the show anymore,” Wendy said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair pretended to be surprised by this. “No? But you did?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“So what happened?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The show was taken off the air.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“For low ratings?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Really? Why then?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePortnoi said, “Your Honor, we all know the whys.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLori Howard nodded. “Move along, Mr. Hickory.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You know my client, Dan Mercer?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And you broke into his house, didn’t you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWendy tried to hold his gaze, tried not to look guilty, whatever the heck that meant. “That’s not really accurate, no.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s not? Well, my dear, I want to make sure that we are as accurate as humanly possible, so let’s back up, shall we?” He strolled across the courtroom as though it were a catwalk in Milan. He even had the audacity to smile at the families of the victims. Most made a point of not looking at Flair, but one of the fathers, Ed Grayson, stared daggers. Flair seemed unfazed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How did you first encounter my client?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“He came on to me in a chat room.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair’s eyebrows went skyward. “Really?” Like it was the most fascinating thing anyone had ever said. “What sort of chat room?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A chat room frequented by children.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And you were in this chat room?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re not a child, Ms. Tynes. I mean, you may not be to my taste, but even I can see that you are a rather luscious female adult.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Objection!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJudge Howard sighed. “Mr. Hickory?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair smiled, waved his apology. This was the kind of thing only Flair could get away with. “Now, Ms. Tynes, when you were in this chat room, you were pretending to be an underage girl, isn’t that correct?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You then engaged in conversations designed to entice men into wanting sex with you, isn’t that also correct?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How’s that?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I always let them make the first move.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair shook his head and made a \u003ci\u003etsk-tsk\u003c\/i\u003e noise. “If I had a dollar for every time I said that . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA smattering of laughter rippled through the courtroom.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe judge said, “We have the transcripts, Mr. Hickory. We can read them and decide for ourselves.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Excellent point, Your Honor, thank you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWendy wondered why Dan Mercer wasn’t here, but that was probably obvious. This was an evidentiary hearing, ergo, there was no requirement to attend. Flair Hickory was hoping to persuade the judge to throw out the horrible, sickening, stomach-turning material the police had found on Mercer’s computer and hidden throughout his house. If he could pull this off—everyone agreed it was a long shot—the case against Dan Mercer would probably vanish and a sick predator would be out on the streets.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“By the way”—Flair spun back toward Wendy—“how did you know it was my client on the other end of these online conversations?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I didn’t at first.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh? With whom did you think you were conversing?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I didn’t have a name. That’s part of it. I just knew at that stage that it was some guy who was trolling for sex with underage girls.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“How did you know that?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Excuse me?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair made quote marks with his fingers. “ ‘ Trolling for sex with underage girls,’ as you put it. How did you know that was what the person on the other end of the conversation was doing?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Like the judge said, Mr. Hickory. Read the transcripts.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh, I have. And do you know what I concluded?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat got Lee Portnoi up. “Objection. We don’t care what Mr. Hickory concluded. He isn’t giving testimony here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sustained.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlair moved back to his desk and started checking through notes. Wendy looked over at the gallery. It helped her resolve. Those people out there had suffered greatly. Wendy was helping them find justice. Much as you could pretend to be jaded or claim that it was just her\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338541215973,"sku":"NP9780451237989","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451237989.jpg?v=1769572600","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/caught-isbn-9780451237989","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}