That theory induced him to leave San Francisco, the night before the most important event of his career, and head east. Three hours later, under a full moon in the starry Colorado sky, Adam rang the doorbell of his father’s home and waited to be admitted. Numerous times—in the helicopter, on the private plane, in the car from the airport—he’d questioned the prudence of his decision, but he proceeded, intent on seeking answers. The porch light illuminated above him and the door opened. Rick Bennett stood blinking in a hastily belted robe, his short graying hair tousled, a long cast covering his left leg from just below his knee. They spoke concurrently. “What happened to your foot?” “What are you doing here?” Adam strode across the threshold, closing the thick wooden door behind him and taking his father’s arm. “Let’s get you settled.” He helped the older man into the open family room, the rhythmic thump of his cast against the wide planked floors a somber accompaniment.
