‘Did you find anything out about him yet?’ Mickey asked as he gathered my drink ingredients.

‘No, not yet,’ I said, looking at the photo staring back at me.

Once the dust settled, I’d reached out to Hannigan and asked him for a copy of the photo I’d found in the cabin with the mystery boy. While they’d said it meant nothing, something inside me couldn’t rest until I knew who that boy was. Maybe he was just a friend but he’d known Frank before Frank turned into the monster he later became. I had to know his story.

‘You’ll find him,’ Mickey said. ‘If there’s one thing I know about you by now, babe, it’s that you don’t stop till you find what you’re looking for.’

I laughed at this understatement and opened up the Word document still minimized on my screen. Beccah had reached out to me when the news of rescuing Addie and Zoey broke, eager to get some color for her newest investigative piece she was writing on the truth behind TSK’s identity. Promising to leave me unnamed for the time being, we met up for coffee. She was beautiful, with her black braided hair and warm, radiant skin. She exuded power and confidence.

Our conversation had taken a turn that I could only have dreamed of. She told me I should write my own story and kick off the journalistic career I’d always hoped for. At first, I wasn’t sure I wanted the notoriety that would come from being named as the infamous relative whose DNA helped capture TSK. But Beccah made me see the side of the story that his crimes had overshadowed: the human side. Never mind the fact that my story, she’d said, would sell itself if I wanted to break into a career like hers. After that, things happened fast. She became my writing mentor, connecting me with a friend of hers at New York Times Magazine. I’d been barely two sentences into my pitch when they’d made me an offer to publish my story.