Becca admired Wishard for standing up to Christian, but she also knew that Wishard had just suffered a serious trauma. Becca could see hand-shaped bluish bruises beginning to form on her neck. “Are you sure you’re okay? That guy went at you pretty hard,” Becca said, her therapist training kicking in.

“It was a calculated risk. Now I know how committed he is to his lies.”

“I can say without question that nothing will shake his faith in Mo,” Becca said.

“I’m glad we agree. I’m convinced Maureen Wilson was calling the shots, and those kids were her pawns, but I can’t prove it yet.”

Maureen Wilson. The name rolled around in Becca’s head. It was a name befitting an East Coast Ivy Leaguer. “What’s she saying?” Becca asked.

“Nothing. First thing she did when she was arrested was lawyer up. Made one phone call and within thirty minutes, the top defense attorney in the state and his minions arrived.”

“So it’s true? Mo’s rich?” Becca asked.

“Old East Coast money. Her grandfather started a hedge fund in the 1920s, her father, Francis Forrester Jr., took it over and turned it into a billion-dollar empire. According to Forbes, Mr. Forrester is the three hundredth richest man in the world and very politically active. He’s donated to political causes, including our very own mayor’s reelection.”

“Who you won’t be surprised to hear is now very interested in this investigation,” Christian interjected. Becca’s stomach turned, thinking about all those kids who had gone missing, the runaways vanishing onto the streets of LA and how no one gave a shit.

“Old money talks,” Wishard said, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

“What brought Maureen to LA?” Becca asked.

“Apparently, while attending grad school at Columbia, she met her future husband, a man by the name of Paul Wilson. A Malibu local, he was attending law school in New York. They relocated shortly after he graduated.”

She handed Becca the same file she’d shown Vic. On top was a printout from an old issue of Los Angeles Magazine. “LA’s Biggest Heart,” the headline read, complete with a full-length color picture of Maureen Wilson. The picture was at least fifteen years old. Maureen was late twenties, wearing a Ralph Lauren white silk blouse and black linen trousers, looking out over the balcony of a massive Malibu estate, the Pacific Ocean sparkling in the background, her hair perfectly blown out. The caption under her picture read “Maureen Wilson at home in Malibu.” If it weren’t for that unmistakable smile, Becca might not have even recognized her. That goddamn smile.