“I don’t know yet. Just thought I’d do some checking,” Kristi said. That much was true enough. Already she’d spoken with two family members of the missing girls. She didn’t tell anyone that she thought she’d write a book about them, because, truth to tell, if the girls did end up being runaways, she had no story. Until there was actually a crime, she couldn’t very well start penning a true-crime book.

Of course, she hadn’t shared that information with Dionne’s purportedly great, once-upon-a-time boyfriend Elijah Richards, who was sure he’d see his name in print like some sort of urban hero. In her conversation with him, he’d been all about Elijah, barely able to focus on the girl he supposedly loved. Maybe there was a reason Dionne left him for Tyshawn Jones, even with Tyshawn’s criminal tendencies.

Kristi bit her lip, thinking of the other family members she’d reached—Tara Atwater’s mother, who had been a real piece of work. Angie Atwater had spent most of the conversation ranting about how her “no-good daughter” was following in her father’s path—straight to the Georgia State penitentiary. Poor Tara.

With each conversation, Kristi was becoming more convinced that something awful, something evil had happened to the four missing girls. There was a chance that through her digging, she could find a link between them, a reason they’d gone missing, and turn over whatever she found to the police. Maybe they’d get lucky and find the coeds alive. At the very least she could help prevent any more girls from disappearing.

“Did you personally know any of the missing girls?” Kristi asked Mai.

“No,” Mai said quickly. “I didn’t really talk to Tara.” She lingered over the desk as if intrigued…connected. She seemed about to say something more, but changed her mind.

Suddenly, Kristi realized the time. “Look, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got a night class in”—she glanced at the clock hung over the fireplace—“fifteen minutes!”

Mai picked up her laundry. She looked away from Kristi’s desk and managed to shake off the pall that had settled over her. “Yeah, I gotta get at this”—she held up the basket of dirty clothes—“or it’ll be midnight before I’m done. The laundry room here—” She shuddered. “It’s just plain creepy. I don’t think anyone’s cleaned that basement since the Civil War. Pardon me, the War of Northern Aggression, as it’s called by some of the natives around here. There are tons of spiders down there and some might even be poisonous, and there are probably rats and snakes, too…. I put off washing my clothes until the last minute.”