Dear Reader,

      The most asked question of an author is “Where do your ideas come from?” The answer is as diverse as the stories themselves. For me it’s usually a snippet I read about or overhear that nags me to write my own version, as it was in this case.

      A few years ago a reader wrote to say she’d read one of my books. In the letter she mentioned truth being stranger than fiction. Her husband, she said, a postman, was instrumental in reconnecting a child – pictured on one of the lost-children cards he delivered – with the child’s mother. Off and on I found myself wondering how it has all worked out. But since I didn’t know the “real” story, I made up how I’d like such a reunion to turn out. I like happy endings, and I like good people. I took liberties with this story that probably aren’t true to life. Especially as I have a friend in social work who says domestic abductions rarely end well. More often than not the child ends up hurt, because children love both mum and dad equally.

      In this book I wanted to delve into the feelings and emotions of two parents involved in such a case. And since it’s fiction, I really wanted the best possible ending for my stolen child, Sophie Patton. I hope you like her story.

       Roz Denny Fox

      PS Readers can contact me at PO Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731, USA or rdfox@ worldnet.att.net.

      Looking for Sophie

      ROZ DENNY FOX

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      JULIAN CAVENAUGH closed the folder and pushed his chair back from his desk. He and his partner, Rick Barnett, had finally cracked the case after four months of tracking leads, many of which had gone nowhere, leaving everyone frustrated. Even as a veteran detective in one of Atlanta’s grittiest precincts, he felt good about putting another alleged murderer behind bars. His chief had suggested he take a vacation now before plunging into his next case. Rick had already taken his family to Florida for sun and fun. But Julian hadn’t decided yet. Too much downtime could make him lose his edge.

      He was, however, toying with the idea of going fishing with his dad for a couple of days. Even though his family lived just thirty miles outside Atlanta, Julian hadn’t seen them since Christmas. His crazy schedule hadn’t allowed it.

      His phone rang, jerking him back to attention. “Cavenaugh,” he snapped.

      “Julian, it’s Mom.”

      He gripped the receiver tighter, thinking maybe he’d conjured up this call. “What’s wrong?” Neglectful or not, Julian couldn’t remember his family ever phoning him at the office. They left messages at his apartment or on his cell because no one wanted to bother him at work.

      “It’s your dad.” Beth Cavenaugh’s voice sounded odd.

      “Is it his heart? How bad? Damn, we all warned him at Christmas to lay off the rich desserts.” Julian glanced at the wall clock. “If I leave now, I can be in Mosswood in under an hour.”

      “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten you. Your father is well enough.” Beth lowered her voice. “He’s done it again, Julian. Sam is positive he’s recognized one of the kids on his route from a card. Oh, I shouldn’t bother you. I did try Taggert and Josh first, but they refuse to talk to him. And he’s not listening to me. I’ve reminded him he’s only got six months until he can retire and the department will drop the earlier reprimand so he goes out with a clean record, but Sam claims this isn’t about him. And… Julian…what if he’s right this time?”

      Shutting his eyes, Julian rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, I just closed a big case—the west-end serial murders. You’ve probably seen it on the news. Chief MacHale wants me to take some time off. Let me tie up some loose ends here, then I’ll come down to see you tomorrow. Maybe I can reason with Pop.”

      “Oh, would you? I didn’t want to ask, but this is so much like the last time. He’s a stubborn old coot when he gets it in his head that he’s right. It’s not like he’s even seen this little girl up close. They’re a fairly new family on his mail route. I just want him to be careful and not make wild accusations again.”

      Julian tried to reassure his mother. “Don’t worry. I have avenues to check that we didn’t have before.”

      Beth seemed relieved and before hanging up they arranged that he’d arrive around one the next day.

      Julian sat quietly for a moment, letting his thoughts drift back to the disaster that had his mother concerned even now. He’d been a high-school sophomore. Tag and Josh were in junior high and Celeste still in grade school. Tag had invited a new friend home for supper. After the boy left the Cavenaughs, Sam had pulled out a card sent by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Sam delivered one or two of the cards along his route every week, and he kept copies for himself. The whole family had agreed the new boy was a dead ringer for a kid listed as missing from a nearby state.

      But within hours of Sam calling the hotline all hell broke loose in sleepy Mosswood. An FBI team swept in and the scandal that followed their investigation was huge. Bigger than huge. Tag’s friend wasn’t the missing boy. And rather than praising Sam Cavenaugh for doing his civic duty, the boy’s dad, rich as Warren Buffett, did his best to get Sam fired. Mr. Miller was so angry over the scrutiny and suspicion he and his family were forced to endure, he closed a factory he’d recently opened in town. A hundred residents lost their jobs.

      For a while, the Cavenaughs were pariahs. If the NCMEC hadn’t supported Samuel, he would’ve been fired. The agency spokesman released a statement asking where lost and stolen kids would be if people like Sam Cavenaugh never stuck their necks out? All the same, an official reprimand went on Sam’s record. It took years for the town to forgive and forget.

      Julian knew that his father had done the right thing. All cops relied on citizen tips in their cases. Still, Julian understood why his mom was worried.

      Julian quickly exited his shared office and left his file on the murder case in the clerk’s out-basket where Rick Barnett had already left his. Down the hall, he knocked on Chief MacHale’s door.

      “I don’t want to see you for at least two weeks,” Conrad MacHale said, signing and dating the vacation request Julian handed him. “No two or three days and you’re back.” MacHale paused to examine him more closely. “Man, you look like hell—like you haven’t slept since this case started. Go relax. Get on that motorcycle you’re so fond of, find a hot date and have a good time. Just don’t come back for two weeks. A month would be better, but we can’t spare you that long.”

      “In a month a guy could forget how to do the job.”

      “I doubt that.” MacHale’s laugh was dry as he passed Julian a copy of the form. “Your record’s one of the best in