Emma Kind had created a list for Avery of everyone in Victoria’s life at the time of her death. It included friends and family, bosses and coworkers, and Roman Manchester—Victoria’s defense attorney and the man she had gone to see on the morning of September 11, 2001. Someone who, unlike Victoria, had made it safely out of the crumbling building.

Roman Manchester was seventy-one years old and still a practicing defense attorney today. The list of clients he had represented over the years was long and distinguished, if not infamous. A few notables included his consultation on the O.J. Simpson trial in the nineties, his involvement with John Ramsey, father of JonBenét, and his brief representation of Scott Peterson. Manchester had agreed to meet with Avery when she called, and now she pushed through the entrance of the building in the financial district and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. She pulled open the glass door on which was stenciled MANCHESTER & PARTNERS, gave her name to the receptionist, and was ushered into the attorney’s office.

“Roman Manchester,” the man said with a smile as he approached Avery and extended his hand.

“Avery Mason. Thanks for taking the meeting.”

“Of course. Have a seat.” He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. The attorney took his own seat behind the desk. “No American Events cameras?” he asked with a laugh.

In the last twenty-four hours, Avery had watched dozens of videos of Roman Manchester in front of news cameras. Some were formal news conferences during which the man proudly stood behind a podium and opined about his client’s innocence. Others were of Roman Manchester on the courthouse stairs, wheeling boxes of research and courtroom notes behind him, and taking a moment out of his oh-so-busy day to answer reporters’ questions about his client. The man, it seemed, never missed an opportunity to be in front of the camera. Avery had watched footage from the nineties, when his hair was black and his face was wrinkle free. She’d also watched footage from his most recent trial earlier this year, when he stood behind the podium with silver hair and droopy jowls. Through the transformation of age, the man’s skin carried a perpetual tan and his eyes always looked sharp. The years had mixed gravel into his voice, but it still boomed in the latest video, certain of his client’s innocence.

Avery smiled. “No cameras. Just me. I’m trying to get my arms around this story before we start shooting footage. But if the network goes ahead with the special, I’ll be back for a formal interview. The cameras will be with me then. If you’re willing, of course.”

“Absolutely. I’ll admit I was intrigued when you called. Victoria Ford was a long time ago, but still so vivid in my memory.”