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Back Vortex Save as PDF
Chapters (61)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. Epilogue
  57. Epilogue
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. About the Author
  60. Also by Catherine Coulter
  61. About the Publisher

She ended their call and dialed Dirk Melcher at the Guardian, caught him just before he was off to a crime scene in SoHo with a reporter. She offered to make him her famous meatloaf if he’d sharpen two old photos for her. Dirk had told her once he’d kill for her meatloaf, and so the deal was quickly sealed. She emailed him the photos. She got to her feet, stretched, stared again at them, then got herself a fresh cup of tea and went back to Kali’s landing page, but it was hard to concentrate. Mia got up and walked to the large window overlooking Central Park. Not many people out, too cold, the wind whipping the naked tree branches. For the first time in seven years, she felt a leap of hope. The two young men in the photos, they were seven years older now, in their thirties. Were the bastards still out there somewhere roofieing and killing women? Was Serena just one of many? Did they even remember her? No matter if they’d stopped, they were still monsters, still deserved to be in prison for the rest of their lives.

The police and the FBI had both done their interviews, looked into date rapes, deaths, and disappearances at other universities at about the same time. They’d had no luck.

But that was then.

13

Mia

The Guardian

1185 Houston Street

Tuesday, early afternoon

The Guardian was an old grande dame of a building, mellow redbrick, built in the thirties by Alfred Lowell to an impressive fourteen stories. The newspaper, still owned by the Lowell family, sprawled over most of the top five floors.

Mia stepped into the noisy newsroom, one floor below where the bigwigs hung out. She was so used to the chaos she barely heard the clacking keyboards, people talking to one another and on their cells, a senior editor chewing out a reporter inside one of the glass offices lining the room about something involving a lame-ass tagline as she walked to her cubicle. She saw a soda can go flying toward Janine, who deftly caught it. Janine was the Guardian’s woman-about-town writer, known as the Scooper by her colleagues. She saluted, popped the top, and drank.

Dirk Melcher waved to Mia. She gazed fondly at him; he was supertalented and always ready to help, always ready with a joke. He was thin as a stick and movie-star handsome, but even at twenty-four, he hadn’t picked up yet when a woman was into him. He wore Lady Gaga T-shirts in the summer, primarily those with her singing her heart out, and thick Madonna hoodies from January to the end of April, primarily with Madonna with very few clothes on.