Chapter One

The cold January rain ran in rivulets down my windshield. Sitting in my car outside the Post Office, I stared down at the letter my wife had mailed to me after she kidnapped my two little boys. The darkness made it hard to read, but I needed answers. I knew I could trust no one in the community to give them to me. I was not just dealing with my wife Suzanne. My wife would never steal my children from me; she would know the things that might make me do. Tears of rage and frustration filled my eyes. I sobbed in the car, relieved it was raining. Now passersby could not see my grief. I knew if I made an angry demonstration, it would not help me see them any sooner. Suzanne had my boys; she held the power, for now.

I had to play this cool. Gather in my emotions. Act smart. A come-apart would ruin my relationship with my children. I would play this out. I would be patient, knowing this would not be a sprint. It was shaping up to be a drawn-out and grueling marathon. Glancing at the letter, I could hardly focus on the fragments of sentences. Choking back tears, I read again the note that changed my life forever.

I sat, helpless, stunned, wondering whether I would ever see those boys again. This was not like my wife. Suzanne wouldn't use phrases like "him who holds the keys." Or "I have put myself in the Prophet's hands." She wouldn't even write "I wish you the best." Instead, two weeks ago, she had written "I [??]‚ you, baby." And now here she was using lines out of the sixteenth century? Whoever was behind this, it was not my wife.

My wife did not steal those boys. It was the