Doris let go and held out her hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Bergman.”

Caitlin shook her hand. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Chapman.”

Doris sighed. “A home is where your family lives. This is my hell.”

*   *   *

What had once been a basement home theater now housed the Find Angela Chapman headquarters. Couch, love seat, end tables—all shoved against a wall. White poster board covered any available wall space, and theories, suspicions, and questions covered the sheets of sturdy material like a science fair project no one wanted to work on.

Caitlin began a slow walk around the room, noticed a section of photos and detailed entries under the heading “Time Line.”

“It’s very—”

“Manic?” Doris finished.

Caitlin turned back. “I was going to say ‘thorough.’ What do you do for a living, Mrs. Chapman?”

“Look for my daughter. I used to be a patent attorney for a pharmaceutical company in Indianapolis. I’ve had a hard time writing intellectual property arguments about erectile dysfunction since Angie disappeared. Seems so pointless.”

Caitlin laughed loud enough for Lakshmi to turn in her direction.

Doris smiled. “Thank God, someone finally laughed at that.”

“Did you do all of this?”

Doris nodded. “Me, Lakshmi, the Chapter.”

“The Chapter?”

The woman crossed the room to a computer and opened a browser. The words Chapman Chapter appeared above a discussion board. She scrolled through hundreds of posts.

“Angie’s friends, amateur private eyes, retired law enforcement, and straight-up lunatics.”

“The well-intentioned masses,” Caitlin said, her eyes on a board titled “Suspects.” She tapped on the two photos of young men hung directly below. “These two?”

Doris nodded. “The last to see Angie. They lawyered up immediately.”

Lakshmi joined in. “They’re the ones, Caitlin—Kieran Michelson and David Amireau.”

Caitlin focused on the photo to the left, Kieran Michelson. She couldn’t tell if the brown-haired, lightly stubbled, blue-eyed man looked twenty-one or thirty-one. Either way, he could be a model, even in the lighting of the Bloomington Police Department. The other, David Amireau, had beady eyes, a hawk nose, and an abundance of dark moles on pasty white skin.

Lakshmi gestured around the room. “If you look at our time line—”

Caitlin turned away. “I’m not ready for all the facts.”

Doris raised a hand. “Lakshmi, don’t scare her.” She arranged a pair of rolling chairs in front of the computer. “Please, Caitlin, sit with me.”

They sat. Doris leaned in, gentle. “I understand you’ll be staying in Bloomington to work on a project.”

Caitlin shook her head. Her three small words had turned into a full-on project. Might as well go with it. “Sort of a personal story, maybe another book.”

“About rape.”

“Sure,” Caitlin said, glancing at Lakshmi. “And other things.”

“I was raped,” Doris said, all business. “Twenty-five years ago in Chicago. Want to hear the story?”