June, present day. Durango, Colorado.

“That motherfucker,” Eliza Santos muttered aloud as she coasted into her conspicuously half-empty driveway on her one-speed Hathaway cruiser bike. “He’s still not back.”

The motherfucker, in this particular instance, was her husband, Peter Simons. And he was a motherfucker because he was now officially twenty-four hou…