Mike Sullivan is determined to raise his six-year-old daughter Sarah to become a tough, independent woman. His own mother left when he was twelve, promising to return and rescue him from his father, an abusive and violently unpredictable thief who, Mike believes, is responsible for her disappearance. But Mike's wife, Jess, has an overprotective need to shelter Sarah. Rebelling against her paranoia, Mike waits until Jess leaves the house and then, against her wishes, takes Sarah sledding. Only Sarah doesn't want to go up the hill with her father. Sarah wants to go up with her best friend. In love with his daughter's stubbornness, Mike grants her wish, and when Sarah doesn't come down, he finds himself stuck in the middle of a snowstorm, his daughter gone. Five years later, Sarah is still missing. The only suspect, Francis Jonah, the former priest believed to be responsible for the disappearance of two other girls, is dying of cancer. On the anniversary of Sarah's disappearance, her jacket is discovered -- by Jonah. Battling a failed marriage and desperate for the truth, Mike is in a frenzied race to unlock Jonah's monstrous secrets before he dies. What is the connection between the disappearance of Sarah and Mike's mother? And why has Mike's father suddenly reappeared? In this gripping story of loss, compassion, and forgiveness, Mike must confront a family history steeped in lies, deceit, and, hardest of all, the persistent suspicion that his daughter might still be alive. "[A] gut-wrenching thriller. Chris Mooney has written his finest novel." -- Dennis Lehane, "New York Times" bestselling author of "Mystic River" "Gripping, haunting...beautifully written...one of "the" best -- maybe the best -- I've read this year." -- Harlan Coben, "New York Times" bestselling author of "No Second Chance" "Harrowingly wrought....Chris Mooney successfully turns the screw." -- "Daily News" (New York) Chris Mooney is the critically acclaimed author of Deviant Ways , World Without End , and Remembering Sarah , which was nominated for the Barry Award and the Edgar Award for Best Novel. He lives in Boston with his wife and son. Introduction His memories would always be dominated by churches. The night before his mother left, Mike Sullivan sat next to her in the front pew of St. Stephen's. At least twice a week, when they needed a place to hide, they would come here, and after praying, if she had some extra money, they'd head over to the Strand, Belham's downtown movie theater where three bucks got you back-to-back James Bond movies. Most of the time they'd head over to the public library where his mother would check out her weekly fix of paperback romance books, all of them with titles like The Taming of Chastity Wellington and Miss Sofia's Secret. It was the snow that had driven them back inside the church that night. They had been on their way home from the library when the light snow suddenly turned bad, the wind howling so hard that Mike wondered if the car would tip over. Traffic was backed up everywhere, so they pulled into St. Stephen's to wait out the storm. Belham was still shoveling out from last month's whopper, the Blizzard of '78; now, not even a month later, a weatherman on the radio was predicting another storm for northeastern Massachusetts. Mike was eight. The church was packed with people waiting for the roads to be cleared. His mother picked up one of the three travel magazines she had checked out from the library and started to read, her face serious but relaxed, the way she looked when she prayed. She was a petite woman, so small that Mike would tightly clasp his hands around hers, afraid that if he didn't somehow keep her anchored to the ground, she'd blow away. She flipped a page in her magazine, her free hand caressing the beautiful silk blue scarf she wore around her neck, the scarf imprinted with ancient pillars and statues and angels and looking completely out of place against her bulky winter jacket. "It's rude to stare, Michael," she said in a soft voice. Even when she was mad, which was hardly ever, her voice stayed that way. "I don't have anything to read," he whispered. "How come the library doesn't carry comics?" "You should have picked out a book on woodworking." She turned around in her pew so she could face him, the magazine still opened up on her lap. "That birdhouse you made me for Christmas, I saw you working on it in your father's workshop. Saw the care you took when you stained it." "I did a good job." "No, you did a terrific job," she said, and smiled. That smile made men stop and take notice of her. That smile reassured him that everything was going to turn out all right. "Where did you get that?" "Get what?" "That scarf." "This thing? I've had this for a long time." His mother's lies were as easy to spot as her bruises. She was careful never to wear the scarf around Lou, putting it on only after she left the house, taking it off and stuffing it in her ja