It was his fault.

Man Rule Number One: Your daughter is safe in your home. You take care of your family. However you want to spin this horror, that was the plain fact: Ted hadn't done his job. Had someone broken in and snatched his Haley away? Well, that would be on him, wouldn't it? A father protects. That's job one. And if Haley had left the house on her own that night, sneaked out somehow? That was on him too. Because he hadn't been the kind of father his daughter could go to and tell what was wrong or what was going on in her life.

The rehashing never stopped. He wanted to go back, change one thing, alter the universal time structure or whatever. Haley had always been the strong child, the independent one, the competent one. He had marveled at her resourcefulness, which definitely came from her mother. Had that been part of it? Had he figured, well, Haley doesn't need as much parenting, as much supervision, as Patricia and Ryan?

Useless, constant rehashing.

He was not a depressive type, not at all, but there were days, dark, bleak days, when Ted remembered exactly where his dad kept his pistol. He pictured the whole scene now-making sure no one was home; walking into his childhood house where his parents still lived; taking the pistol from the shoebox on the top of the closet; walking down to the basement where he had first made out with Amy Stein in seventh grade; moving into the washer-dryer room because the floor there was cement, not carpet, and easier to clean. He would sit on the floor, lean against the old washer, put the pistol in his mouth-and the pain would end.

Ted would never do it. He wouldn't do that to his family, add to their suffering in any way. A father didn't do that. He took it on himself. But in his more honest, more frightening moments, he wondered what it meant that thinking about that release, that end, sounded so damn sweet.

Ryan was in the game now. Ted tried to concentrate on that, on his boy's face through the protective cage, mouth distorted by the guard, tried to find some joy in this rather pure childhood moment. He still didn't get the boys' lacrosse rules-the boys' game seemed entirely different from the girls'-but he knew that his son was playing attack. That was the position where you had the best chance of scoring a goal.

Ted cupped his hands around his mouth, forming a flesh megaphone. "Go, Ryan!"

He heard his voice echo dully. For the past hour, other parents had called out constantly, of course, but Ted's voice sounded so awkward, so out of place. It made him cringe. He tried to clap instead, but that, too, felt awkward, as if his hands were the wrong size. He turned away for just a second, and that was when he saw him.

Frank Tremont trudged toward him as though through deep snow. A big black man, definitely another cop, walked with him. For a moment, hope spread its wings and took flight. Ted felt something inside him soar. But only for a moment.

Frank's head was down. As he drew closer, Ted could see that the body language was all wrong. Ted felt the quake begin in his knees. One buckled but he held himself upright. He started crossing the sidelines to meet up with him faster.

When they were close enough, Frank said, "Where's Marcia?"

"She's visiting her mother."

"We need to find her," Frank said. "Now."

A GIANT SMILE spread across Pops's face when they entered the Blend bar.

"What?" Wendy asked.

"More cougars on those bar stools than on the Discovery Channel."

The bar had low lights and smoky mirrors, and everyone was dressed in black. He was right about the clientele. In a way.

"By definition," Wendy said, "a cougar is an older woman who frequents clubs to score with younger men."

Pops frowned. "Some of them still gotta have Daddy issues, right?"

"At your age, you should hope for a Daddy complex. Check that-Grandpa complex."

Pops looked at her, disappointed, as though the line was super lame. She nodded an apology because, yeah, it was.

"Mind if I mingle?" Pops asked.

"I cramp your style?"

"You're the hottest cougar here. So, yes. Though some chicks dig that. Like they're stealing me away."

"Just don't bring any of them home. I have an impressionable teenage son at home."

"I always go to her place," Pops said. "I don't like her knowing how to find me. Plus I save her the morning walk of shame."

"Thoughtful."

Blend had a bar up front, restaurant in the middle, club in the back. The club was holding the open-mike night. Wendy paid the cover charge-five bucks including a drink for men, one buck including a drink for the ladies-and ducked inside. She could hear Norm, aka Ten-A-Fly, rapping:

Hotties, listen up,

You may not be in Tenafly

But Ten-A-Fly gonna be deep in you…

Oy, she thought. There were forty, fifty people gathered around the stage, cheering. Ten-A-Fly wore enough gold bling to make Mr. T envious and a trucker hat with a flat brim and forty-five-degree tilt. He held up his droopy trousers with one hand-might have been because they were too big, might have been because the guy had absolutely no ass-while the other gripped the microphone.

When Norm finished that particularly romantic ditty with the closer that Ten-A-Fly be so deep in you, you be begging for no Engle-Wood, the crowd-median age: early forties-gave him a huge ovation. A red-clad maybe-groupie in the front threw something onstage, and with something approaching horror, Wendy realized that they were panties.

Ten-A-Fly picked them up and took a deep sniff. "Yo, yo, love to the ladies out there, the burning shawties, Ten-A-Fly and the FC in da house!"

The maybe-groupie put her hands in the air. She wore, God help her, a T-shirt that read, "Ten-A-Fly's Main Ho!"

Pops came up behind her. He looked pained. "For the love of all that is merciful…"

Wendy scanned the room. She spotted the rest of the Fathers Club-FC?-near the front, including Phil. They cheered wildly for their man. Wendy's gaze traveled back and settled on a petite blonde sitting alone near the back. Her eyes were down and on her drink.

Sherry Turnball, Phil's wife.

Wendy swam through the crowd, making her way toward her. "Mrs. Turnball?"

Sherry Turnball turned from her drink slowly.

"I'm Wendy Tynes. We talked on the phone."

"The reporter."

"Yes."

"I didn't realize that you were the one who did the story on Dan Mercer."

"Did you know him?"

"I met him once."

"How?"

"He and Phil lived in the same suite at Princeton. I met him at the political fund-raiser we held for Farley last year."

"Farley?"

"Another classmate." She took a sip of her drink. On the stage, Ten-A-Fly asked for quiet. "Let me tell you about this next number." A hush fell over the room. Ten-A-Fly took off his sunglasses as if they'd angered him. His scowl aimed for intimidation but seemed more in the neighborhood of constipation.

"So one day I'm sitting at Starbucks with my homies in the FC," he began.

The Fathers Club hooted at the shout-out.

"I'm sitting there, enjoying my latte or whatnot, and this dial-nine-one-one-kickin' shawty walks by, and man-o-man she's working it up top, if you know what I'm saying."

The cheers said, We know what you're saying.

"And I'm looking for inspiration, for a new tune and whatnot, and I'm checking out this five-alarm shawty in a halter top… and this phrase just comes to me: 'Swing dem puppies.' Just like that. She saunters by, head up, working it up top, and I think to myself, 'Yeah, baby, swing dem puppies.' "

Ten-A-Fly paused to let that sink in. Silence. Then someone yelled: "Genius!"

"Thanks, brother, I mean that." He pointed at the "fan" in some complicated way, like his fingers were a gun turned on its side. "Anyway, my homies in the FC helped me take this rap and bring it up to the next level. So this is for you guys. And of course, all you top-heavy shawties out there. You be Ten-A-Fly's inspiration."