Brilliance

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There’s an abiding myth that books are written solo, an ink-fingered dreamer stuck in a basement making it all up. The dreamer and the basement are both accurate, but I certainly didn’t do it alone. My deepest thanks to:

Scott Miller, agent, buddy, and brother-in-arms, who not only didn’t panic at my crazy left turn, he told me to write it stat. Thanks also to the stellar team at Creative Artists, especially Jon Cassir, Matthew Snyder, and Rosi Bilow, who put the lie to all the jokes about Hollywood.

Andy Bartlett, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Daphne Durham, Justin Golenbock, and the rest of the Thomas & Mercer crew, who are passionate booklovers building a brave new world.

I’m fortunate to have two creative partners. The first is Sean Chercover, collaborator and heterosexual life mate, whose fingerprints are all over this book. Anything you didn’t like was probably his fault. The second is Blake Crouch, who, atop the summit of a fourteen-thousand-foot peak, helped me turn the slenderest fragment of a notion into a full-blown story…and then gave me the title. Drinks are on me, boys.

All the folks who read the book early and pointed out where it sucked, especially Michael Cook, Alison Dasho, and Darwyn Jones.

Jeroen ten Berge, the visionary behind the cover design.

Dana Kaye, gifted publicist and all-around get-er-done-r.

Dale Rosenthal of the University of Illinois at Chicago, who, over Guinness, disassembled the global financial marketplace and then redesigned it abnorm-proof.

Kevin Anthony, who built the beautiful desk I’ll be writing on for the rest of my life.

The crime fiction community: booksellers and librarians, bloggers and reviewers, writers and publicists, but most especially the readers.

My brother Matt, who devoured the book, carefully propped up my ego, then tore apart everything that didn’t work. You’re the man.

Sally and Anthony Sakey, better known as Mom and Dad, who gave me everything.

And finally, the two loves of my life: my wife g.g. and our daughter Jocelyn. Nothing would mean anything without you.