Chapter 1Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport Wednesday, 4:05 p.m.Fiona Glass was trained to notice faces, but even if she hadn't been, she would have noticed this one.The man watching her from across the crowded concourse was a study in contrasts, from his receding hairline to his youthful, ruddy cheeks. His hair was strawberry blond -- the same color as Fiona's -- and a smattering of freckles covered the bridge of his once-broken nose.But it was his eyes that really captured her attention. They were brown and serious and fixed squarely on her.Fiona halted outside the arrival gate, creating a pileup of deplaning passengers."Sorry," she muttered, tugging her black roll-on bag out of the flow of traffic."Miss Glass?"She glanced into the eyes that had been boring a hole in her just moments before."Garrett Sullivan, FBI," he said.A special agent. His charcoal suit and forgettable tie should have been her tip-off. Fiona draped her coat over her arm and hitched the strap of her attache case onto her shoulder so she could shake the hand he'd offered."I didn't know someone was coming to meet me," she said, pulling her hand back. "I was planning to take a cab."The side of his mouth ticked up. "Didn't want you to get lost.""Aren't we going to the police station?""Change of plan." He commandeered her suitcase and led her into the river of people, creating a path for her in his wake. He wasn't tall -- probably five-nine -- but he was bulky in the way of an athlete who had let things slide."Any checked bags?" he asked over his shoulder."No."He obviously wasn't going to fill her in yet, so Fiona simply followed him through the concourse. Glancing around at all the harried business travelers, she smoothed her French braid and adjusted her lapels. She didn't like suits, but she wouldn't dream of wearing anything else to a meeting with police and FBI agents, most of whom would be men. Those occasions called for drab, wrinkle-resistant clothes, which she kept in the carry-on bag that lived in her car. Today's gray suit was double-breasted and had the added advantage of concealing her figure. She looked tailored. Conservative. Professional.She looked like Sullivan."We're going to the house," the agent finally explained. "The media wanted fresh sound bites for five o'clock, so there's a press conference scheduled at police headquarters in twenty minutes. Things are quiet at the residence now, and we thought it'd be a good time to get you out there.""Okay." Fiona blew out a breath and mentally adjusted her expectations for the evening. She'd hoped to be thoroughly briefed on the case before she met with the child. She didn't want to go in unprepared. All she knew about this kid was that he was "highly traumatized," which could mean anything.They passed the escalator leading down to ground transportation, and Fiona stopped. "Don't we -- ?""We're out here."He led her to a roped-off area near a bank of metal detectors and X-ray machines. A line of passengers snaked back and forth, their boarding passes and IDs held out for inspection. A security guard gave Sullivan a crisp nod, then unclipped the nylon strap from the stand and waved them through. Less than a minute later, Fiona stood on the curb beside a white Ford Taurus that had been illegally parked in the passenger-drop-off lane. Sullivan waved at the orange-vested guard patrolling the sidewalk as he opened Fiona's door.She slid into the car, discombobulated by the change of plan but grateful to be whisked away from the airport so efficiently. Fiona hated airports. They were inevitably bipolar -- filled with people either frantically stressed out or morbidly bored.She fastened her seat belt and stowed her attache and coat at her feet. The interior of the Taurus felt warm, meaning Sullivan couldn't have been waiting long inside the terminal. ForGriffin, Laura is the author of 'Thread of Fear', published 2008 under ISBN 9781416570639 and ISBN 1416570632.