I was thinking about an assignment we had last month regarding context, how personal stories are used in journalism to humanize larger issues. Obviously, you’re not the only woman to deal with sexual assault on a college campus. You know my agenda, but I don’t think the two issues need to be separate. I’d like you to meet Doris Chapman, Angela’s mother. Her perspective on the safety of women on college campuses might bring a modern touch to your own tragedy.

Lakshmi continued with contact info and available scheduling. The girl’s plea read heavy-handed on the page, but she fought for her cause. Caitlin’s favorite part? Lakshmi’s inference that she hadn’t yet left town.

Her finger hovered over the “Reply” button.

If she said yes, the whole point of her trip would change. She’d meet the mother, hear the details, feel the pull. She’d been able to quit smoking, abstain from sex, even ditch booze when necessary, but when it came to a story no one else could tell, Caitlin fiended like any other junkie.

She knew her own assault—beginning, middle, and end—but wasn’t sure she could write that story, let alone find an audience. This Chapman thing, though.

Might be a book in it.

Might even help someone.

Couldn’t hurt to look.

She shot a message to a neighbor about her plants and mailbox, then typed her reply to Lakshmi. Unlike trying to tap into her assault, the response flowed like a river.

Chapter 9

CHAPTER

9

10:13 AM. Thirteen minutes and still no sign of her.

Maybe she’d picked a different route from what she’d run yesterday. Maybe she hated Mondays, took the day off from her workouts. Maybe she wouldn’t come.

He undid his lightweight cycling helmet, scratched his scalp where the sweat beaded. Ten more minutes and he’d be in trouble. The mailman would pass and he’d be seen. Not his truck; he’d parked up a logging road, fifty feet around a corner, near the gate with the rusted-over padlock. Still, even the most disgruntled postal employee would notice a solitary cyclist standing over a mangled bike with blood streaked from his spandex shorts to his foot.

Five more minutes and he’d give up.

He exhaled, shuffled back and forth. He’d missed this feeling, the unbridled anticipation, the moments before the taking.

“Don’t get excited,” he muttered, clicking his teeth together. Like he could control the sensation.

His body sizzled like a downed power line. Every hair stood at attention, every nerve amped to receive. He rolled his shoulders back, slapped his hands together, stepped onto the country road’s asphalt surface, watched the bend that led uphill toward his position.

A breeze rustled the trees, but he couldn’t hear any animals, not even birds. Made sense—nature knew a predator by scent. Humans were the only animals in the forest who’d grown complacent.