So much blood. She could run. But realistically she knew there was nowhere to hide. Bobby would find her and… She made herself focus, made herself remember everything she knew about Monica Cassidy. And a plan began to form. I can fix this. It would work. It would have to. Unless she was prepared to walk into the ICU and smother the girl herself, which she was not. “All right. This is what I want you to do.”

Atlanta , Friday, February 2, 11:15 p.m.

This statement is hereby given freely by Susannah A. Vartanian and is witnessed by Chloe M. Hathaway, Assistant State ’s Attorney. Sitting at the desk in her hotel room, Susannah’s hands paused on her laptop and she reread the statement she’d prepared. In it were all the details she recalled from that day thirteen years ago, from the most sordid to the most benign. She and Chloe Hathaway had traded voicemails, but they’d meet tomorrow morning to discuss Susannah’s statement and subsequent testimony.

Subsequent testimony. It sounded so brisk, so impersonal… so like somebody else’s life. But it’s not. It’s mine. Restless, Susannah pushed away from the desk. She would not change a word. Not this time. This time she’d do the right thing.

It was just a matter of time before her involvement in what the media had already dubbed “The Richie Rich Rapists” hit the news. She’d already spied someone with a camera taking pictures as she’d checked in to the hotel. They must have followed Luke Papadopoulos’s car when he’d driven her from the hospital.

Luke. She’d thought of him often this day, each time a little differently. He was big, strong enough to carry Jane Doe up a steep hill without breathing hard, but he’d been so gentle with the girl. Susannah knew there were gentle giants out there, but in her experience they were rare. She hoped the woman in Luke’s life appreciated his value.

That he’d have a woman in his life was a given. Coupled with his dark good looks, the man vibrated with an intensity most women would find sexually enticing. Susannah was honest enough to admit that she did, that her stomach had gone all tight when he’d stood so close in the ICU, and that she’d thought about pressing her mouth to his jaw.

But Susannah was smart enough not to get involved. Ever. Involvement led to questions, and questions ultimately would require answers. She wasn’t prepared to give answers to Luke Papadopoulos or anyone else. Ever.

Still, she remembered the devastation in his black eyes when he’d come out of the bunker. And even then he’d held her up when her own legs buckled. He felt things deeply, but seemed able to partition those feelings away to focus on what needed to be done. She respected that because she knew just how difficult it was to do.

Luke had dropped her off at the hotel without further argument, respecting her wishes, even though he disagreed. Then he’d gone on his way to meet with his team, focused and intense, which seemed to be his resting state.

She envied him. Luke Papadopoulos had things to do, important things, while she’d been sitting on her hands all day. In reality that was less than accurate. She’d had a very busy morning and afternoon. It was the evening that had been empty as she’d sat waiting, powerless, with too much time to think. Tomorrow, she’d do something. She’d sit with the girl with no name, because there was no one else to do so. Because she’s my responsibility. But first she’d give her statement to Chloe Hathaway.

She glanced at the newspaper she’d bought in the hotel lobby. The headlines screamed of a serial killer at large in Dutton. Old news. But below the fold was an article on the Dutton dead, as of the day before. One name caught her eye. Sheila Cunningham. They shared a bond, she and Sheila. Tomorrow Sheila would be laid to rest and Susannah knew she needed to be there. So tomorrow she’d stand in the Dutton cemetery once again.

Tomorrow would be a difficult day.

Her stomach growled, mercifully derailing her thoughts and reminding her of the time. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and room service was late. She’d picked up the phone to check its status when there was a knock at her door. Finally.

“Thank y-” Her mouth fell open. Her boss stood outside her door. “Al. What are you doing here? Come in.”

Al Landers closed the door behind him. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“How did you know to come here? I didn’t tell you my hotel.”

“You’re a creature of habit,” Al said. “Every time you travel you stay in this hotel chain. It was just a question of calling around until I found the right one.”

“But you came to my room. Did the front desk give that information?”

“No. I overheard a reporter trying to bribe the concierge for your room number.”

“I guess this was bound to happen. Vartanians are big news in Atlanta right now.” Simon had made sure of that. “So did the concierge tell him?”

“Yes, that’s how I knew your room number. So I reported him to the manager. You may want to consider a different hotel the next time you come to town.”

When this was over, there wouldn’t be a next time. “You said you wanted to talk.”

Al looked around. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Scotch in the minibar.” She poured him a glass and sat on the arm of the sofa.

He went to her desk and glanced at her laptop screen. “I’m here because of that.”

“My statement? Why?”

He took his time answering, first sipping at the scotch, then downing it in a gulp. “Are you sure… very sure you want to do this, Susannah? Once you are cast in the role of a victim, your life, your career will never be the same.”

Susannah went to the window and stared out at the city. “Believe me, I know. But I have my reasons, Al. Thirteen years ago I was…” she swallowed hard, “… raped. A gang of boys drugged me, raped me, and poured whiskey all over me, just like they would do to fifteen other girls over the course of the next year. When I woke up, I was shoved in a little hidey-hole behind my bedroom wall. I thought it was my secret hiding place, but my brother Simon knew about it.”

Behind her she heard Al’s careful exhalation. “So Simon participated?”

Oh, yes. “Simon was the team captain.”

“Wasn’t there anyone you could tell?” he asked carefully.

“No. My father would have called me a liar. And Simon made sure I didn’t tell a soul. He showed me a picture of me being… you know.”

“Yeah,” Al said tightly. “I know.”

“He said they’d do it again. He said there was nowhere I could hide.” She drew a breath, the terror as fresh as if thirteen years had not passed. “He said I had to sleep sometime, that I should stay out of his affairs. So I did. I never said anything. And they went on to rape fifteen others. They took pictures of all of us. Kept them as trophies.”

“Do the police have these pictures now?”

“GBI does. I found them this afternoon, in Simon’s hidey-hole. A whole box full.”

“So the GBI has incontrovertible proof. There’s only one of those bastards left, Susannah. Why put yourself through this now?”

Anger bubbled and she whirled to face the man who’d taught her so much about the law, the man who’d been a shining example. The man who’d been everything Judge Arthur Vartanian had not. “Why are you trying to talk me out of doing what’s right?”

“Because I’m not so sure that it is right,” he said calmly. “Susannah, you have been through hell. Nothing will change if you come forward. The facts will be the same. They have pictures of this man… what’s his name? The only one left?”

“Garth Davis,” she spat.

His eyes flashed dangerously, but his voice remained level. “They have pictures of this Davis raping you, raping others. If you come forward, you will be known as the victim who turned prosecutor. Every defense attorney you go up against will question your zeal. ‘Is it the guilt of my client Ms. Vartanian is trying to prove, or is she trying to get revenge for her own assault?’ ”