Troy Olson. A nice enough Yank with a face like an underdone dinner roll. I hadn’t thought of him in years but I remembered him now.

After Jason had disappeared from my life for the second time, after I’d stopped crying enough to make my preparations, I’d called Henry Lenders, the detective assigned to Jason’s case. I used to call him a lot that first year, five or six times a day, even after the case had gone cold.

I told him my hunch. He called me back two hours later. “You got it. Customs agent at Heathrow remembers a kid matching Jason’s description. It’ll take time and paperwork to find out who he was traveling with, where he was going.”

Big, soft Troy Olson from Minnesohhta. I heard Jason’s voice again: “There’s nohhh such thing as happy.”

“I’ll call the minute I hear more,” Henry continued. “Don’t do anything stupid, mate.”

“I’ll try to be patient,” I lied. I’d bought the plane ticket even before I’d called him.

Now, the stewardess shook me out of my feigned sleep. “Sir? We’re about to land.”