GBI Agent Talia Scott was walking across the stage, clasping the hand of each woman at the table. Agent Scott lingered over Susannah, her expression concerned, but Susannah nodded resolutely. Scott stepped off to the side and Gretchen French pulled her microphone close.

Gretchen cleared her throat. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming.” Conversation died quickly and all eyes were on the stage. “We are six of sixteen women raped by the Dutton men you in the media have called the Richie Rich Rapists. Please understand that there is nothing comedic about this for the six of us sitting here before you, or the seven of us who for reasons of their own chose not to appear. Or for the three of us who did not survive. This is not funny. It is not cute. It is real and it happened to us.”

A few reporters actually looked ashamed. Gretchen’s good, Bobby thought.

“We were sixteen,” Gretchen went on, “and we were raped by a gang of young men who used our shame and fear to keep us silent. Not one of us knew that there were others. Had we known, we would have spoken then. We’re speaking now. We will take your questions, but be advised that we may choose not to answer them.”

It’ll be soon, Bobby thought, her pulse beginning to race. An anonymous phone call to a Journal reporter known to skirt the boundaries of good taste was about to cause the uproar she would use to her advantage. Casually she edged through the crowd to where she had a clear shot. She planned three clear shots. The first would finish Gretchen French off and cause a commotion. The second would be for dear little Susannah. The third shot, Bobby thought, is for whichever poor sap is standing closest to me. The resulting stampede was all she’d need to get away. It had worked before and Bobby was a firm believer in not fixing what wasn’t broken. And just as before, Bobby had an escape plan all worked out.

She scanned the crowd. The Journal reporter she’d called with a tip was sitting in the third row, a feral gleam in his eyes, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

So am I.

Susannah was calm. Surprisingly so. She looked out at the sea of faces and knew she’d made the right choice. She also knew the gossip had begun the moment she’d sat at the table. The media knew the victims were going to speak out. They’d had no idea she was one of the victims. They certainly knew now. Her face had been instantly recognized and the buzz had ripped through the room, viral and electric. Reporters had whipped out their BlackBerries and cell phones, each wanting to be the first to deliver this juicy morsel.

Marianne Woolf was standing off to the side, covering the event for her husband’s Dutton Review. Marianne’s pictures of Kate’s murder and Sheila’s funeral had been splashed across the Review’s front page that morning. Susannah imagined she’d be among tomorrow’s front-page stories.

Luke was also out there, standing near the back of the room, on edge, on guard. She and the other five victims had been brought in through a back door to avoid the crush, but everyone else in the room had passed through a metal detector. The GBI was taking no chances with their safety. Still she knew Luke measured each face, each demeanor. It was comforting, knowing he was watching over her.

Talia had come by with encouraging words for each of the women on the stage, pausing to ask Susannah one last time if she was sure. Susannah was very sure.

When Gretchen began speaking everyone went still. Gretchen had shared her prepared statement with the five of them beforehand, and her eloquent but passionate words had brought tears to the eyes of more than one of the women. But now their eyes were dry as they prepared for questions.

The first came from a woman reporter. “How did you find out about one another?”

Talia had provided Gretchen with a scripted response to this question. “In the course of a multiple murder investigation in another state, pictures of our assaults were recovered. Over the past week, the GBI determined our identities from those photos.”

Cameras flashed and Susannah heard whispers of Simon Vartanian and Philadelphia intermixed with her name and Daniel’s. Leaning on the skills she’d honed through years of living with Arthur Vartanian, she kept her chin up, her eyes impassive, completely aware most of the cameras were pointed at her face.

A man stood up. “How have your lives been impacted by the assault?”

The women looked at each other and on the other side of Gretchen, Carla Solomon pulled the microphone closer. “The impact has been felt differently by each one of us, but overall, it’s been consistent with the aftereffects suffered by most assault victims. We’ve had trouble establishing and maintaining relationships. A few of us have battled substance abuse. One of us committed suicide. It was a defining, devastating moment in our lives, one that has left permanent scars.”

Then a man in the third row stood and Susannah felt an instant prickle of unease. His eyes were on her and there was a… satisfaction in his expression that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Troy Tomlinson with the Journal,” he said. “This is for Susannah Vartanian.”

The microphone was passed down the table. From the corner of her eye Susannah searched for Luke, but he was no longer in the back of the room and her unease grew.

“You all were victims thirteen years ago,” Tomlinson began, “and I think I speak for us all in saying we have sympathy for what happened to you and understand why you failed to report your assaults then. You were all sixteen years old and far too young to deal with the enormity of your experience.” His voice oozed a false sincerity that set Susannah’s teeth on edge, and beside her, Gretchen stiffened. “But, Susannah, how can you, especially given your record of pushing rape victims up in New York City to come forward, how can you explain your failure to report a second assault, seven years later, one in which your friend was brutally murdered?” The buzz swelled and Tomlinson spoke louder. “And how do you respond to Garth Davis’s denial of your assault?”

Susannah’s heart began to pound. How did he know about Darcy? As the second question sank in, fury flared, tamping the fear. Garth Davis denies raping us? With all of those pictures as proof? Son of a fucking bitch.

No. Stay calm. Tell the truth.

“Mr. Tomlinson, your insinuation that any rape victim who does not report her assault is somehow negligent or immature is both egregiously insensitive and cruel.” She leaned forward, no smile on her face. “Rape is more than a physical assault, and victims, including myself, must deal with the resulting feelings of loss of personal safety, control, and confidence each in her own way. This is true whether they’re sixteen or sixty.

“When my friend was murdered six years ago, I cooperated with the authorities the best way I knew how. I made sure the facts were known even as I struggled to survive a second assault. My friend’s murderer was subsequently caught and is paying for his crime.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I’m not finished, Mr. Tomlinson. You asked two questions. Mr. Davis cannot possibly deny our assaults occurred, nor his part in them. The evidence is irrefutable. Vile and disturbing. But irrefutable.”

Tomlinson smiled. “I interviewed Mayor Davis. He doesn’t deny all the assaults, Susannah. Just yours. He challenges you to show one photo of him raping you.”

You’re a son of a fucking bitch, too. But she kept her cool. “Mr. Davis must answer to God and to the people of the state of Georgia for his crimes. I know what happened to me. What Mr. Davis says is immaterial. As I said, the evidence is irrefutable. Now please sit down, Mr. Tomlinson. You’re finished.”