In April 2015, 43 girls in matching pink dresses boarded a charter bus for their spring formal at Riverside Manor, an hour north of campus.

The last photo showed them laughing, champagne bottles ready for afterparty toasts.

By sunrise, the manor was ash and the bus was found abandoned 2 mi away, engines still running.

The university called it a tragic accident.

Electrical fire.

The girls never made it inside, overcome by smoke trying to save each other.

43 closed caskets.

43 death certificates signed by the same coroner in 6 hours.

Lauren Hoffman was 19.

Her younger sister Claire was 14.

Lauren’s last text came at 11:47 pm Formal’s boring stealing you cake.

Anyway, 5 years later, Clare found Lauren’s notebook hidden in her childhood closet, tucked inside a teddy bear Lauren had given her for safekeeping.

Pages of financial records, account numbers.

The last entry, April 22nd.

Meredith’s been stealing for years, going to Dean Kensington after formal.

Lauren never made it to the dean.

Three weeks ago, Clare found 43 pink dresses hanging in a university storage room wrapped in plastic and labeled water-damaged formalware 2014.

They weren’t damaged.

They were perfect, which meant those girls never burned.

Someone had undressed them first.

The storage unit smelled like cardboard and decades.

Clareire Hoffman stood in the doorway looking at five years of her sister’s life packed into boxes labeled in her mother’s shaky handwriting.

Lauren winter clothes.

Lauren textbooks.

Lauren miscellaneous.

She’d volunteered to clean it out because her mother shouldn’t have to do this alone.

Really, she couldn’t watch her cry over Lauren’s sophomore year biology textbook again.

The box labeled MISK sat in the back corner dust thick on the tape.

Clare opened it and found the pieces that didn’t fit anywhere else.

Yearbooks from high school, a jewelry box with tangled necklaces, three umbrellas, all broken, and a stuffed bear wearing a tiny sority t-shirt, the one Lauren had worn at the campus fair last summer together.

Lauren had given it to Clare the night before she left for formal.

Hold on to him for me, Clare Bear.

He’ll keep your bed warm until I get back.

Clare never slept with it.

Couldn’t.

It had smelled like Lauren’s perfume for months, and then it just smelled like dust.

She picked it up now, and something shifted inside.

Not stuffing, something heavier.

The back seam had been opened and resewn with clumsy stitches, not Lauren’s neat hand, but rushed.

Desperate.

Clare worked her finger under the thread until it popped and a small notebook slid out into her palm.

Brown leather, pocket-sized.

Lauren’s handwriting on the first page.

If you’re reading this, something happened.

The notebook was filled with numbers, rows and rows of them, dates going back three years.

Account names Clare didn’t recognize.

Delta Sigma Scholarship Fund, House Maintenance Reserve, Alumni Legacy Account.

Each one had two columns: official balance and actual balance.

The numbers didn’t match, not even close.

Official balance for the scholarship fund, $47,000.

Actual balance, $11,200.

The difference written in red ink, $35,800 missing.

Clare flipped through faster.

Every account showed the same pattern.

Money disappearing in small amounts over years.

Hundreds here, thousands there.

By the time she reached the end, Lauren had added it all up.

Total embezzled $387,000.

Her sister had found someone stealing nearly $400,000.

There were names scattered through the margins.

Ask Olivia about spring 2013 receipts.

Meredith signed off on all discretionary spending.

Why does M.

Thorne have signatory access to alumni fund? Meredith Thorne, the house mother, the woman who’d held Clare’s mother at Lauren’s funeral and whispered that Lauren was like a daughter to her.

The last page was dated April 22nd, 2015, one day before the formal.

M knows I know.

Olivia thinks I’m paranoid, but M’s been watching me all week.

tried to get into my room twice when I wasn’t there.

Just saw her.

Taking everything to Dean Kensington after formal tomorrow.

Can’t risk doing it before.

What if he warns her? Need the weekend to make copies.

Get everything ready.

Olivia’s helping me organize it all Sunday.

Sunday never came.

Clare sat on the concrete floor, Lauren’s handwriting blurring in front of her.

Her sister had known.

She’d known someone was stealing and she was going to report it.

and then 43 girls got on a bus and never came home.

The university ruled it accidental.

Fire investigators said faulty wiring in the old manor.

The bus driver, some contractor they’d hired for the night, was never found, but police said he probably panicked and ran.

No foul play suspected.

Tragic accident, except Lauren had hidden this notebook in a teddy bear the night before she died.

Except she’d written M knows I know.

Except someone who’d stolen nearly $400,000 had a very good reason to make sure Lauren never talked to Dean Kensington.

Clare pulled out her phone and searched for Meredith Thorne.

She was still listed on the university website.

House director Delta Sigma chapter 28 years of dedicated service.

28 years.

More than enough time to embezzle that much money without anyone noticing.

The photo showed a woman in her 60s, gray hair, styled neat, warm smile, the kind of face you’d trust.

The kind of face that had hugged Clare’s mother at a funeral and promised that Lauren had been happy in her last days.

Clare flipped back through the notebook, looking for anything else.

A receipt was tucked between pages, folded small.

She smoothed it out.

Campus Copy Center, April 21st, 2015.

Two days before the formal document copying 47 pages, $8.

15, Lauren had made copies.

She’d been preparing evidence.

Clare grabbed her phone and dialed the number she hadn’t called in 5 years.

Detective Paul Hendris, the man who’d investigated the disappearance, the one who’d sat in their living room and told her parents that sometimes terrible things just happen and we have to accept that their baby girl was gone.

He answered on the third ring.

Hendris.

This is Clare Hoffman.

Lauren Hoffman’s sister.

Silence.

Then Claire.

It’s been a long time.

I found something.

Lauren’s notebook.

She was investigating financial fraud at the sorority.

She was going to report it the day after she died.

More silence.

Too much silence.

Clare, he said slowly.

I understand you’re still grieving.

She wrote that the house mother knew she was on to her the day before the fire.

The fire was an accident.

We investigated thoroughly.

Did you investigate embezzlement? Did you look into Meredith Thorne’s finances? I think you should talk to someone, a counselor.

This kind of conspiracy thinking, it’s common in families who’ve experienced $400,000.

detective.

That’s how much Lauren documented.

His tone shifted, got harder.

Listen to me very carefully.

That case is closed.

Those girls died in a tragic accident.

Digging into this won’t bring your sister back, and it won’t help your mother.

Let Lauren rest.

Someone hid evidence in a stuffed animal the night before she died.

Lauren was 19 years old.

19year-olds don’t uncover massive fraud conspiracies.

They make mistakes.

They see patterns that aren’t there.

I’m sure whatever you found has a reasonable explanation.

Then help me find it.

I can’t help you chase ghosts, Clare.

I’m sorry.

He hung up.

Clare sat there holding the phone, Lauren’s notebook open on her lap.

Detective Hrix hadn’t asked to see the evidence, hadn’t asked what accounts were involved, hadn’t asked a single follow-up question.

He just told her to let it go, which meant either he was the worst detective in the state or he already knew exactly what Lauren had found.

She looked down at the notebook again at her sister’s careful documentation at the date Lauren had planned to report everything.

April 24th, 2015, the day after formal.

The day she was supposed to come home and bring Clare a piece of cake and tell her all about the terrible DJ and who danced with who.

The day someone made sure she never got to, Clare pulled out the receipt again.

Campus Copy Center.

47 pages copied.

If Lauren had made copies, they were somewhere.

And if Meredith Thorne had been stealing for 28 years, there had to be more evidence than one notebook.

She closed the box labeled Lauren Misque and stood up.

Her knees cracked from sitting on the concrete too long.

Her mother was outside loading old coats into her car.

She looked up when Clare walked out, and her face did that thing it always did, hope and pain mixing together whenever she saw Clare carrying something of Lawrence.

“Find anything you want to keep?” she asked.

Clare held up the teddy bear.

“Just this.

” Her mother smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

It never did anymore.

“I’m going to drive back to campus tomorrow,” Clare said.

I want to see Lauren’s old room.

The memorial garden.

Just say goodbye properly.

It was a lie.

But her mother didn’t need to know that Clare was going to find out what really happened to her daughter.

She nodded.

That sounds nice, honey.

I think Lauren would like that.

Clare thought Lauren would like her to finish what she’d started.

The drive to campus took 3 hours.

Clare spent most of it replaying Detective Hendricks’s voice in her head.

The way he’d shut her down without asking a single question about the evidence.

The way he’d said, “Let Lauren rest.

” Like Clare was disturbing a grave instead of investigating a murder because that’s what it was.

She knew that now.

43 girls didn’t accidentally die the same night one of them was planning to expose a massive fraud.

The university looked the same as it had 5 years ago.

Same brick buildings, same manicured lawns, same students walking around like the world hadn’t ended here once.

Clare parked in the visitor lot and sat for a moment, staring at the Delta Sigma house three blocks away.

She’d been 14 the last time she visited.

Lauren had snuck her into the house during parents weekend, shown her the room she shared with Olivia, let her sit in on a chapter meeting.

The older girls had faed over her, called her little Hoffman, promised she’d be a legacy when her time came.

Clare never rushed, couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in a building where her sister had died, or whatever had really happened to her.

She got out of the car and walked toward the administration building instead.

If Lauren had made 47 copies at the campus copy center, she would have needed somewhere to store them.

Her dorm room would have been too obvious.

Meredith had access to the sorority house, which meant Lauren would have hidden them somewhere off campus or given them to someone she trusted.

The campus copy center was tucked in the basement of the student union.

Clare pushed through the door and found a kid behind the counter, maybe 20, scrolling through his phone.

His name tag said, “Brandon.

” “Help you?” he asked without looking up.

“I need to look up an old transaction from 2015.

” That got his attention.

Like 5 years ago.

Our system only goes back 2 years maybe.

My sister made copies here 2 days before she died.

I need to know if there’s any record of what she copied or if she stored anything here.

Brandon’s expression shifted.

Died.

I’m sorry.

I don’t think.

Lauren Hoffman.

April 2015.

The spring formal fire.

Recognition flickered across his face.

Everyone on campus knew about the fire.

It was the kind of tragedy that got embedded in university lore.

The story older students told freshmen during orientation to scare them about off-campus parties.

Oh, Brandon said quietly.

[ __ ] I’m really sorry.

Can you check anyway? Even if the transaction records are gone, maybe there’s a storage locker system or something.

He shook his head.

We don’t do storage.

Too much liability.

But he hesitated.

There used to be a guy who worked here in 2015.

Gary something.

He got fired a few years ago for letting students store stuff in the back room against policy.

If your sister needed to hide something, he might have helped.

Do you know how I can find him? No idea.

HR might know, but they’re not going to give you that information.

Clare thanked him and left.

HR was a dead end.

She knew that.

But if this Gary guy had been fired for policy violations, there might be a paper trail or someone else who remembered him.

She walked back outside and pulled out her phone, searching for news articles about the fire.

Most of them were from the week after it happened.

Tragedy strikes university community.

43 lives lost.

In spring formal fire, memorial service planned for victims.

All of them quoted the same people.

the university president, the fire marshal, Detective Paul Hendris.

None of them mentioned anything suspicious.

No follow-up investigations.

No questions about the bus driver who disappeared.

No mention of the fact that 43 girls had burned to death but somehow left their dresses behind in perfect condition.

Clare clicked on a photo gallery from the memorial service.

Hundreds of people had attended.

students holding candles, parents crying, university officials giving speeches about how the girls would never be forgotten.

And there in the back of one photo, standing apart from the crowd, Meredith Thorne.

She wasn’t crying, wasn’t holding a candle, just standing there with her hands folded, watching.

Clare zoomed in.

Meredith’s expression was calm, almost peaceful.

She looked like someone who’ just solved a very big problem.

Clare’s phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

Stop asking questions.

Her stomach dropped.

She looked around the quad, but there were too many people, too many faces.

Anyone could be watching.

She texted back, “Who is this?” No response.

Clare shoved her phone in her pocket and started walking toward the Delta Sigma house.

If someone was watching her, good.

Let them know she wasn’t backing off.

The house looked smaller than she remembered.

Three stories of brick and white columns, Greek letters above the door.

A sign out front announced that the chapter was stronger together with a list of the 43 girls who’d died.

Lauren’s name was third from the top.

Clare walked up the steps and tried the front door.

Locked.

She knocked and after a minute, a girl answered, “Blonde, maybe 19, wearing sweatpants and a Delta Sigma t-shirt.

Can I help you? The girl asked.

I’m looking for information about the 2015 formal.

My sister was one of the girls who died.

The girl’s face fell.

Oh my god, I’m so sorry.

We have a memorial room on the second floor if you want to.

I need to talk to Meredith Thorne.

Mrs.

Thorne doesn’t live here anymore.

She retired last year.

Claire’s chest tightened.

Retired? Yeah, she moved to Florida or something, but she still comes back sometimes for events.

She was here last month for initiation.

Do you have her contact information? The girl hesitated.

I’m not supposed to give that out.

But I can ask her to call you if you want.

No, Clare said quickly.

That’s okay.

Thanks.

She turned and walked back down the steps.

Meredith had retired, moved out of state, but still came back for events, which meant she was still connected to the university, still had access, still had a reason to make sure no one found out what she’d done.

Clare walked around the side of the house toward the back.

There was a small garden there, the memorial the university had planted after the fire.

43 rose bushes, each with a small plaque bearing a victim’s name.

Lauren’s bush was in the second row.

Pink roses blooming despite the late season.

Claire knelt in front of it and touched the plaque.

Lauren Hoffman 1996 to 2015.

Beloved daughter and sister.

Beloved like that word could hold everything Lauren had been.

Everything she’d never get to be.

Clare pulled out her phone and took a photo of the plaque, then stood and started photographing the other names.

43 girls, 43 families who’d been told their daughters died in a tragic accident.

She stopped at the last row.

The plaque read Olivia Chen, 1996 to 2015.

Forever remembered.

Olivia, the friend Lauren had mentioned in her notebook.

Olivia thinks I’m paranoid, but M’s been watching me.

Olivia’s helping me organize it all Sunday.

If Olivia had been helping Lauren prepare the evidence, she might have known where Lauren planned to hide the copies.

She might have been the one Lauren trusted most, which meant Olivia’s family might know something the others didn’t.

Clare searched for Olivia Chen’s parents.

It took 10 minutes, but she found an obituary from 2015 listing survivors, parents Michael and Susan Chen of Portland, Oregon.

She found Susan Chen’s Facebook profile.

The most recent post was from three days ago.

A photo of a golden retriever with the caption, “Miss you everyday live.

” Clareire clicked on the message button and started typing, “Mrs.

Chen, my name is Clare Hoffman.

My sister Lauren died with your daughter in the 2015 fire.

I found something that suggests the fire wasn’t an accident.

I think Lauren and Olivia were investigating something together.

Can we talk?” She hit send before she could second guessess herself.

Her phone buzzed immediately.

Another text from the unknown number.

You should have listened.

Clare looked up from her phone just as a black SUV pulled up to the curb 30 ft away.

The windows were tinted dark.

The engine kept running.

No one got out.

Clare’s heart started pounding.

She backed away from the memorial garden, keeping her eyes on the SUV.

The driver’s window rolled down halfway.

Not enough to see inside, just enough to show that someone was watching.

Then the window rolled back up and the SUV pulled away slow and deliberate.

A warning.

Clare stood there until her hands stopped shaking, then walked back to her car.

She locked the doors and sat in the driver’s seat trying to think.

Someone knew she was asking questions.

Someone knew she’d found Lauren’s notebook, and someone wanted her to stop, which meant she was getting close to something they couldn’t afford to let her find.

Her phone buzzed again.

This time it was a Facebook notification.

Susan Chen accepted your message request.

The reply came through seconds later.

Claire, I’ve been waiting 5 years for someone to say that.

Can you meet me tomorrow? I live in Portland, but I can drive down.

There’s something I need to show you.

Susan Chen arrived at the coffee shop 20 minutes early.

Claire spotted her through the window.

A woman in her 50s sitting alone in the back corner, hands wrapped around a mug she wasn’t drinking from.

She looked exactly like her Facebook photo, except older in the way grief makes people older.

Hollowed out.

Clare pushed through the door and Susan looked up.

Recognition passed between them instantly.

Two people who’d lost everything to the same lie.

Clare, Susan said, standing, her voice cracked on the name.

You look like her.

Your sister, same eyes.

They sat across from each other, neither knowing how to start.

Finally, Susan reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope worn at the edges like she’d been carrying it for years.

Olivia called me the night before the formal.

Susan said it was late, almost midnight.

She said she needed to tell me something important, but not over the phone.

She made me promise that if anything happened to her, I’d open the package she’d mailed that afternoon.

Clare’s pulse quickened.

What was in it? Susan slid the envelope across the table.

See for yourself.

Inside were photocopies, 47 pages just like the receipt in Lauren’s notebook said, financial statements, bank records, emails printed on university letterhead, and a handwritten note on top in unfamiliar handwriting.

Olivia’s Clare realized, “Mom, if you’re reading this, something went wrong.

Lauren found proof that Mrs.

Thorne has been stealing from the sorority for years.

We made copies of everything.

Lauren’s taking the originals to Dean Kensington on Sunday.

I’m keeping these as backup.

If we don’t call you by Monday, take these to the police.

Don’t trust anyone at the university.

Love you.

” Liv Cla’s hands shook as she flipped through the documents.

They were the same accounts Lauren had listed in her notebook, but these showed the actual transactions.

Dozens of transfers made by Meredith Thorne over 15 years.

Small amounts at first.

200 here, 500 there, then bigger.

2,000, 5,000, 10,000 at a time.

The emails were worse.

Messages between Meredith and someone named Robert Kensington, dean of student life.

The same dean Lauren had planned to report everything to.

Robert, the girls are asking questions about the scholarship fund again.

We need to show them something.

Can you authorize a small dispersement to make it look active? M.

Meredith, I’ve told you to be more careful.

I can’t keep covering for you if they start auditing.

This has gone on too long.

RK, you’ll cover for me because you’ve been signing off on these transfers for 5 years.

We’re in this together.

M.

Clare looked up at Susan.

Kensington knew.

He was helping her.

He was more than helping, Susan said.

Look at page 32.

Clare flipped ahead.

It was a bank statement for an account under Robert Kensington’s name.

Deposits matching exactly half of every large transfer Meredith had made.

They were splitting the money.

Olivia mailed this the afternoon before the formal.

Susan continued, “It arrived at my house on Monday, 2 days after.

She couldn’t finish.

I took it to the police immediately.

gave it to Detective Hendrickx.

He said he’d look into it, but he didn’t.

He told me the fire investigation took priority.

Said financial fraud was a separate issue and he’d pass it to the appropriate department.

I called him every week for 2 months.

He stopped returning my calls.

Then he sent me a letter saying the case was closed and I needed to stop harassing his office.

Clare felt something cold settle in her stomach.

He buried it.

I tried going to the state police.

They said it was local jurisdiction.

I tried the FBI.

They said there wasn’t enough evidence of federal crimes.

I tried the university board.

They sent me a letter of condolence and a settlement offer if I signed an NDA.

Did you sign it? No.

But my husband wanted to.

We fought about it for months.

He said nothing would bring Olivia back and the money would help us move on.

I said I’d never move on knowing the truth was out there and no one cared.

Susan’s eyes were wet.

We divorced last year.

He couldn’t live with a wife who wouldn’t let go.

Clare reached across the table and took her hand.

Susan squeezed back hard.

When I got your message yesterday, Susan said, I thought I was imagining it.

5 years of people telling me I’m crazy, that I’m seeing conspiracies because I can’t accept my daughter’s death.

And suddenly someone believes me.

Lauren knew.

Clare said she documented everything.

She was trying to do the right thing.

They both were.

Susan pulled her hand back and wiped her eyes.

The question is, why did 43 girls have to die to keep it quiet? Even with Kensington involved, this is just money.

People embezzle and get caught all the time.

They go to prison.

They don’t commit mass murder.

Claire had been thinking about that since she found the notebook.

Maybe it wasn’t about the money.

Maybe there was something else they were hiding.

Something worse.

Like what? I don’t know yet.

But I found something yesterday.

Claire pulled out her phone and showed Susan the photo of the dresses in the university storage room.

These were labeled as damaged formal wear from 2014, but they’re the dresses from the 2015 formal.

I checked photos from that night.

Same style, same color, same everything.

Susan stared at the photo.

If the dresses are in storage, they weren’t at the fire, which means someone removed them from the bodies before Clare stopped before whatever really happened.

Jesus Christ.

Susan’s face had gone pale.

Where are these stored? University archives, basement of the administration building.

I found them by accident.

I was looking for budget records and saw boxes labeled formal wear.

We need to get them out of there.

If they’re evidence, they’ll destroy them the second they know I found them.

They might already know.

Someone’s been watching me.

I got threatening texts yesterday and a car followed me from the memorial garden.

Susan pulled out her own phone.

I’m calling my lawyer.

He’s been waiting 5 years for me to have real evidence.

If we can prove those dresses were removed from the bodies, we can force a real investigation.

They’ll say it’s a storage mistake.

Wrong label, wrong year.

Not if we get them tested, DNA, blood, anything that proves those girls wore them the night they died.

Susan was already dialing.

My lawyer has contacts at private labs.

We can get this done without going through local police.

Clare watched her make the call, feeling something shift inside her chest.

For 5 years, she’d been alone with her grief, told to move on, told to let Lauren rest.

Now, there was someone else who understood, someone else who refused to stop.

Susan finished the call and set her phone down.

He’s making arrangements.

We need to get those dresses tonight before someone moves them.

The archives are locked after 6.

I’d need an employee access card.

Then we get one.

How? Susan’s expression hardened.

Olivia used to work in the registars’s office.

She told me once that all the staff access cards use the same base code.

They just restrict access by building in the system.

If we can clone any staff card, we can reprogram it to open the archives.

That’s illegal.

So is murdering 43 girls and covering it up for 5 years.

Susan leaned forward.

I’ve spent half a decade being polite, following rules, trusting the system.

The system failed my daughter.

I’m done playing by their rules.

Clare thought about Lauren’s notebook, about the teddy bear with its clumsy stitching, about her sister hiding evidence in a child’s toy because she was 19 and scared and didn’t know who else to trust.

“Okay,” Clare said.

“Let’s do it.

” They spent the next four hours planning.

Susan knew a former student, some hacker kid Olivia had been friends with, who could clone an access card if they could get close enough to scan one.

Clare knew the archives were in the subbed the main administrative offices where staff came and went all day.

By 5:00, they were sitting in Clare’s car outside the administration building, waiting for staff to leave.

Susan had a card scanner the size of a credit card that the hacker kid had given her.

All they needed was to bump into someone with an access card and get within 6 in for 2 seconds.

At 5:30, a woman in her 40s came out of the building, university ID card clipped to her belt.

Clare got out of the car and walked straight toward her, phone in hand, like she was distracted.

They collided at the bottom of the steps.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” Clare said, grabbing the woman’s arm to steady her.

“It’s fine.

I wasn’t watching either,” the woman said, already walking away.

Clare returned to the car.

Susan held up the scanner.

“Got it.

” They drove to an off-campus apartment where the hacker kid, a 22-year-old named Devon with three monitors and a pet snake, reprogrammed a blank card in under 10 minutes.

This will get you into any building on campus until they change the base code,” Devon said, handing it back, which they won’t because the university is cheap and lazy about security.

“How do you know it works?” Clare asked.

Devon grinned.

“How do you think I passed organic chemistry?” By 8:00, they were back at the administration building.

The parking lot was empty except for two cars, probably custodial staff.

Clare and Susan walked to the side entrance and Clare held the cloned card up to the reader.

It beeped green.

They were in.

The building was dark except for emergency lighting.

Their footsteps echoed on tile floors as they found the stairwell and headed down.

One flight, two flights.

The subb was marked authorized personnel only.

The card worked again.

The archives stretched out in front of them.

Rows of metal shelving units disappearing into darkness.

Clare found a light switch and fluorescent bulbs flickered on one section at a time.

“This place is huge,” Susan whispered.

“How did you find them before?” “Back corner.

” section marked Greek life historical.

“They walked through the aisles, past boxes labeled with years and organizations.

The air smelled like old paper and mildew.

Clare’s heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

Section Greek life historical.

Row after row of boxes.

And then she saw it.

The empty space where the boxes of formal wear had been.

The dresses were gone.

Clare stood there staring at the gap on the shelf.

The label was still there.

water-damaged formalware 2014.

But the boxes that had been beneath it were missing.

No, she said.

No, they were right here.

I saw them.

I took pictures.

Susan pulled out her phone flashlight and shown it on the shelf.

There were dust marks where the boxes had sat.

Recent dust marks.

They’d been moved within the last day.

“Someone knew you found them,” Susan said quietly.

“Someone’s been watching me since yesterday.

Clare’s voice was shaking.

The texts, the car.

They knew I’d come back.

They moved the evidence.

Susan grabbed her arm.

We need to leave now.

They turned to go.

And that’s when Clare heard it.

The stairwell door opening two floors above them.

Footsteps coming down.

The footsteps were slow, deliberate, not custodial staff making rounds.

Someone who knew exactly where they were going.

Clare grabbed Susan’s arm and pulled her behind a shelving unit.

They crouched in the darkness, barely breathing.

The fluorescent lights they turned on were still buzzing overhead, announcing their presence to anyone who came down.

The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.

The subb opened.

I know you’re down here, Clare.

Detective Paul Hendris’s voice echoed through the archives.

Your car is in the parking lot.

Only two reasons someone breaks into a locked building at night.

Either you’re very stupid or you found something you shouldn’t have.

Clare’s heart hammered against her ribs.

Susan’s hand found hers in the dark and squeezed.

“I talked to Meredith this afternoon,” Hris continued.

His footsteps moved closer, steady, and unhurried.

“She called me after you showed up at the sorority house asking questions.

said you’d been poking around asking about her retirement.

Funny timing, don’t you think? You find that notebook and suddenly Meredith decides Florida sounds nice.

He was three aisles away now.

Clare could see his shadow moving along the wall.

Here’s what’s going to happen, Hendrick said.

You’re going to come out, hand over whatever evidence you think you have, and we’re going to have a conversation about why it’s important to let the dead rest in peace.

Your sister included.

Clare looked at Susan.

In the dim light, she could see the older woman’s jaw set with determination.

Susan shook her head slowly.

Don’t move.

The thing about Lauren, Hrix continued, is that she was a good kid.

Smart.

Too smart for her own good.

As it turned out, she found Meredith’s little bookkeeping problems and thought she could be a hero.

thought she could fix everything by going to Dean Kensington.

He laughed sharp and bitter.

Imagine her surprise when she found out Kensington was in on it.

He was two aisles away now.

Lauren and that Chen girl, they had it all figured out.

Made copies, hid evidence, planned their big reveal, but they made one mistake.

They trusted the wrong person.

One aisle away.

They told Meredith they were going to the police after the formal.

gave her a deadline.

They thought it would scare her into confessing.

His shadow stretched across the floor toward them.

All it did was give her time to plan.

Clare’s breath came in short, silent gasps.

She could see Hrix’s shoes now, black leather, standard issue.

He was standing at the end of their aisle, looking down the row.

There were never supposed to be 43 bodies, he said quietly.

Just two, Lauren and Olivia.

Quick, clean, tragic accident.

But those girls, they were a unit.

Went everywhere together.

When Meredith arranged the bus for the formal, all 43 of them got on, so all 43 of them had to die.

Susan’s hand tightened around Claire’s so hard it hurt.

Hris started walking down their aisle.

The bus never went to Riverside Manor.

Driver took them to an old warehouse on Route 6, one of Kensington’s family properties, locked the doors.

Carbon monoxide through the vents.

They were unconscious in minutes, dead and 20.

Clare felt bile rising in her throat.

We burned the warehouse afterward, made it look like a fire at the manor, worked with the fire marshall, filed the reports, cremated the bodies fast.

Meredith removed the dresses first because they weren’t supposed to be at a warehouse.

They were supposed to be at a formal evidence inconsistency.

His footsteps stopped.

She kept them because she couldn’t figure out how to dispose of 43 identical dresses without raising questions.

Labeled them wrong on purpose.

Hid them in plain sight.

He was 5t away from their hiding spot.

But you had to go digging, didn’t you, Clare? Just like your sister.

Had to find that notebook.

Had to start asking questions.

And now Mrs.

Jen here had to get involved again, sharing Olivia’s little care package that we thought we’d buried 5 years ago.

Susan went rigid beside Clare.

“Oh, I know you’re here, too, Susan.

” Hendrick said, “Your lawyer called my office this afternoon, asking about private lab testing.

Not very subtle.

So, here we are, full circle.

” Clareire’s mind raced.

There was no other exit from the archives, no way past Hrix to the stairs.

They were trapped.

Come out, Hendrickx said.

Let’s talk like adults.

Susan stood up.

Clare grabbed for her, but Susan was already stepping into the aisle, hands raised.

Just me, detective.

Claire’s not here.

Hrix smiled.

Nice try, but her car’s upstairs and I heard two sets of footsteps on the security audio.

He pulled his gun, not pointing it at them yet, just holding it.

Both of you now.

Clare stood slowly, legs shaking.

They stepped out from behind the shelving unit.

Hrix looked older than she remembered, tired, like a man who’d been carrying something heavy for too long.

The notebook and Olivia’s documents, he said.

Hand them over.

We don’t have them, Clare said.

They’re somewhere safe.

Your mother’s house, your apartment, Susan’s lawyer.

I’ll find them.

I’ve had 5 years of practice covering tracks.

Copies exist, Susan said.

Multiple copies.

You can’t erase them all.

Watch me.

Hrix raised the gun, pointing it at Susan’s chest.

Last chance.

Where are the originals? Clare’s mind went blank with terror.

She was going to watch another person she cared about die because of Meredith Thorne’s greed.

“Wait,” she said.

“Wait! I’ll tell you.

Just don’t.

” The stairwell door burst open.

Footsteps thundered down.

Multiple people fast and heavy.

Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.

Detective Hrix dropped the weapon.

State police.

Three of them, guns drawn, fanning out into the archives.

Hrix froze.

For a moment, Clare thought he might shoot anyway, might try to kill all of them and claim self-defense.

But then he lowered the gun slowly and set it on the floor.

Hands behind your head.

On your knees.

He obeyed, face expressionless as they cuffed him.

One of the officers approached Clare and Susan.

“Are you hurt?” Clare shook her head, unable to speak.

Susan was crying, silent tears streaming down her face.

“Mrs.

Chen called us,” the officer explained.

Said her lawyer had gotten a tip about a potential threat.

“We were on campus when we got the alert that someone accessed the archives illegally.

Lucky timing.

Lucky.

” Clare almost laughed.

There was nothing lucky about any of this.

They brought Hrix past them toward the stairs.

He looked at Clare as they walked him by.

“You think this changes anything?” he said.

“Meredith’s in Florida.

Kensington’s protected by the university.

The dresses are gone.

You’ve got a notebook and some copied documents, but no bodies, no physical evidence, no witnesses.

It’s your word against ours.

” “We have you,” Clare said.

And you just confessed to everything.

Hendrick smiled.

To who? Two women who broke into university property at night.

No recording equipment visible.

No warrant.

Any lawyer worth a damn gets that thrown out in 5 minutes.

Then it’s a good thing I recorded everything, Susan said quietly.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, screen lit with a recording app showing 47 minutes of audio.

I’ve been streaming to cloud storage since we walked in.

My lawyer has it all.

The smile dropped from Hrix’s face.

They dragged him up the stairs.

His shouting echoed through the stairwell until a door slammed shut, cutting it off.

Clare sat down on the concrete floor, legs giving out.

Susan sat beside her.

They didn’t speak, didn’t need to.

5 years of silence had just cracked open.

The state police station smelled like burnt coffee and institutional disinfectant.

Clare sat in an interview room with Susan, both of them wrapped in shock blankets someone had draped over their shoulders like they were disaster victims.

Maybe they were.

A detective named Sarah Mills sat across from them, younger than Hrix, sharpeyed and skeptical.

She’d listened to Susan’s recording three times now, making notes in silence.

This is substantial, Mills finally said.

But Detective Hendrickx is right about one thing.

Without physical evidence, it’s going to be difficult to prosecute.

The dresses, Claire said, they were there.

I saw them.

I took pictures.

We searched the archives.

They’re gone.

And your photos just show pink dresses and storage boxes without DNA testing proving those specific dresses were worn by the victims.

They’re just formal wear.

Then test them when you find them, Susan said.

Meredith moved them.

She has to have put them somewhere.

Meredith Thorne is currently in Clearwater, Florida.

We’ve contacted local authorities, but she lawyered up immediately.

She’s not talking, and without a warrant, we can’t search her property.

What about Kensington? Clare asked.

Dean Robert Kensington is also refusing to speak without his attorney present.

The university has issued a statement saying they’re cooperating fully with the investigation, but between you and me, their lawyers are already building a case that any financial irregularities were handled internally and resolved years ago.

Resolved by murdering 43 women, Susan said flatly.

Mills looked at her with something like sympathy.

I believe you.

I believe this recording, but belief isn’t enough.

We need evidence that will hold up in court.

Right now, all we have is Hrix’s confession during an illegal break-in.

His lawyer is already claiming enttrapment and coercion.

Clare felt the hope that had been building since Hrix’s arrest start to crumble.

So, they get away with it.

I didn’t say that.

Mills pulled out a folder and slid it across the table.

Hrix has been a detective for 23 years.

He’s worked hundreds of cases.

If he covered this up, chances are he wasn’t careful every single time.

We’re pulling all his old case files, looking for patterns, financial crimes that got dropped, investigations that went nowhere.

We find enough smoke, we can build a case for corruption that includes the sorority murders.

That could take months, Susan said.

It could.

Or we could get lucky and find something tomorrow.

Police work is patient work.

Mills closed her folder.

In the meantime, I need you both to stay available for follow-up interviews.

And Clareire, no more breaking into university buildings.

They left the station at dawn.

The sky was bruising purple at the edges.

Sunrise still an hour away.

Clare drove Susan back to the coffee shop where they’d left her car.

“What do we do now?” Clare asked.

Susan stared out the window.

“We wait like we’ve been waiting for 5 years.

I can’t just wait.

Not after everything we found.

Then what? Break into Meredith’s house in Florida? Confront Kensington on campus? We’re not detectives, Clare.

We’re just two grieving people who got further than we probably should have.

Lauren didn’t hide that notebook so I could give up halfway.

Lauren hid that notebook so someone would know the truth.

We know the truth.

We told the police.

That’s all we can do.

Clareire dropped Susan at her car and watched her drive away, tail lights disappearing into the gray morning.

Everything felt unfinished.

Hrix was arrested, but he was right.

Without physical evidence, without the dresses, without Meredith’s confession, it was just accusations and a recording that might not hold up in court.

She drove back to her apartment 3 hours away, exhaustion pulling at her like gravity.

She needed to sleep, needed to think, needed to figure out what came next.

But when she pulled into her parking lot, there was a car waiting.

Black sedan, engine off.

A woman sat in the driver’s seat watching.

Clare almost drove away, almost called the police.

But something about the woman’s posture, hunched, defeated, made her stop.

The woman got out slowly.

She was in her 40s.

Professional clothes wrinkled like she’d been wearing them for days.

Her eyes were red- rimmed.

“Claire Hoffman,” she asked.

“Who are you?” “My name is Vanessa Wright.

I was in Delta Sigma, class of 2008, the name from Clare’s research, the alumni who’d been at the memorial service.

I need to talk to you about Meredith Thorne.

” They sat in Clare’s apartment.

Vanessa held a cup of tea she didn’t drink, hands shaking slightly.

“I knew,” Vanessa said finally.

Not about the murders, but about the money.

I figured it out in 2007, my senior year.

I was treasurer before Lauren.

I found the same discrepancies she did.

Claire’s chest tightened.

What did you do? I confronted Meredith.

She cried.

Said she’d been borrowing money to pay for her mother’s cancer treatment, that she’d pay it all back.

She begged me not to report her.

Said it would destroy her career.

It destroy the chapter’s reputation.

Vanessa’s voice cracked.

I was 21.

I believed her.

I kept quiet and graduated and tried to forget about it.

But you didn’t forget.

I checked the chapter’s financial statements every year.

Publicly available through the national organization.

The missing money kept growing.

I knew Meredith was still doing it.

I knew and I did nothing.

Why are you telling me this now? Vanessa reached into her bag and pulled out a small USB drive.

Because I saved everything, all my documentation from 2007, spreadsheets, screenshots, emails, I kept it in case I ever got brave enough to report her, but I never did.

And then the fire happened.

And I thought she stopped, tears streaming down her face.

I thought it was my fault.

If I’d reported her in 2007, maybe Lauren wouldn’t have had to investigate in 2015.

Maybe those girls would still be alive.

Clare took the USB drive.

This could help prove the pattern.

Show that Meredith’s been doing this for decades.

There’s more.

Vanessa wiped her eyes.

After the fire, I started investigating on my own.

Nothing illegal, just watching.

I tracked Meredith’s movements, her property purchases, her financial records, everything that’s public.

She bought a storage unit in 2015, 3 months after the fire.

Small facility on the edge of town, paid in cash.

She still has it.

Claire’s pulse quickened.

You think the dresses are there? I think whatever she couldn’t bring herself to destroy is there.

She visits it sometimes.

I’ve seen her always at night, always alone.

Did you tell the police this? I called Detective Hrix in 2016, told him about the storage unit, about my suspicions.

He thanked me for the information and said he’d look into it.

Then he called me back the next day and told me if I kept harassing his investigation with conspiracy theories, he’d charge me with obstruction.

Vanessa’s jaw tightened.

That’s when I knew Hrix was protecting her.

I didn’t know why, but I knew.

Claire stood pacing her small living room.

The storage unit.

Do you know which facility? You store on Maple Street.

Unit 247.

But Claire, you can’t just break in.

That’s illegal.

I know.

Everything I’ve done this week is illegal, but it’s the only way to find the truth.

Then let me help.

I owe those girls.

I owe Lauren.

Claire looked at her.

this woman who’d been carrying guilt for eight years, who’d been watching and documenting while everyone else moved on.

“Okay,” Clareire said.

“But we do this carefully.

No more walking into traps.

” They spent the next 3 hours planning.

Vanessa had photographs of the storage facility, layout diagrams, even the name of the overnight security guard, an older man who spent most of his shift watching TV in the office.

The locks are basic.

Vanessa said bolt cutters would work, but that’s obvious.

Better to pick it.

Do you know how to pick locks? I’ve been preparing for this conversation for 5 years.

I learned the USORE facility sat on the industrial edge of town, wedged between a closed textile mill and a truck stop.

Sodium lights cast everything in sick orange.

Clareire and Vanessa waited in the parking lot until midnight, watching the security guard through the office window.

He was exactly where Vanessa said he’d be, slumped in a rolling chair, TV flickering blue across his face.

Unit 247 is in the back row, Vanessa whispered.

No cameras in that section.

Budget facility, minimal security.

They got out of the car quietly, closing doors with soft clicks.

The air smelled like diesel and garbage.

Clare carried bolt cutters in a gym bag.

Backup plan if lockpicking failed.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

They walked along the perimeter fence, staying in shadows.

The storage units stretched out in neat rows, identical rollup doors painted green.

Numbers stencled in white, 2011, 233.

Unit 247 sat in the far corner exactly where Vanessa had said.

The lock was a standard padlock, nothing special.

Vanessa knelt in front of it, pulling lock pickicks from her pocket.

“How long does this take?” Clare asked.

“Depends.

Could be 30 seconds.

Could be 5 minutes.

” Vanessa inserted the tension wrench, then the pick.

Her hands were steady.

Practiced.

I spent 6 months learning this.

Watched hours of YouTube videos.

Bought practice locks.

My husband thought I was losing my mind.

ex-husband.

He couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t let it go.

Said dwelling on the past was unhealthy.

He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either.

The lock clicked.

Vanessa pulled it free.

Some things you can’t let go.

They lifted the rollup door slowly, cringing at the metallic scrape.

Inside was darkness and the smell of something chemical.

Cleaning supplies maybe, or preservatives.

Clare pulled out her phone flashlight.

The beam cut through the dark, landing on plastic storage bins stacked three high along the walls.

Garment bags hanging on a metal rack.

Boxes labeled in Meredith’s neat handwriting.

Personal financial records miscellaneous.

She’s been keeping everything, Vanessa whispered.

Evidence of her own crimes.

Clare moved to the garment bags first, her heart hammered against her ribs.

She unzipped the first one.

Pink fabric, delicate, the same shade she’d seen in the university archives.

She unzipped another.

Another pink dress.

Another.

Another another.

43 garment bags.

43 dresses.

Clare’s hand shook as she lifted one out.

The fabric was soft, expensive.

She turned it over, looking for something, anything that proved these had been worn that night.

There on the inside collar, a small monogram tag, the kind the sorority had made for the formal.

LH Lauren Hoffman.

Claire’s vision blurred.

She pressed the dress against her face and breathed in.

5 years old, but it still smelled faintly of Lauren’s perfume, that vanilla scent she’d worn since high school.

Claire.

Vanessa’s voice was tight.

Look at this.

She was kneeling by one of the plastic bins, lit off.

Inside were phones, dozens of them.

Old models from 2015, screens cracked or dark.

These are their phones, Vanessa said.

She kept their phones.

Clare set the dress down carefully and moved to the bin.

She picked one up at random, pressing the power button.

Dead battery.

She tried another.

Same.

There might be evidence on these,” Vanessa said.

“Messages, photos, proof of what happened that night.

” Clareire moved to the boxes labeled financial records.

She opened the top one.

Inside were folders meticulously organized by year.

Bank statements, transfer receipts, forged signatures on university documents, everything Meredith had done, documented and preserved.

“Why would she keep all this?” Clare asked.

“It’s evidence against herself.

insurance.

Vanessa said if Kensington or Hendrickx ever tried to turn on her, she’d have proof they were involved.

Mutually assured destruction.

Clare opened another box.

This one was different.

Personal items.

A diary with a worn leather cover.

Photographs.

She opened the diary and read the first page.

September 1997.

Another year begins.

Another group of girls who think they’re special, who think their lives matter more than they do.

They don’t know how easy it is to make people disappear.

How little anyone really cares once the headlines fade.

Claire’s blood went cold.

She flipped a head.

March 2003.

The Walsh girl figured it out.

Too smart for her own good, just like the others.

Had to be handled.

Made it look like she ran away.

Classic dropout story.

Everyone believed it.

They always do.

Vanessa, Clare said quietly.

This isn’t the first time.

Vanessa moved beside her, reading over her shoulder.

November 2008.

Close call with the treasurer.

She confronted me, but I cried and played the sick mother card.

Works every time.

These girls are so eager to believe in redemption.

She graduated and stayed quiet.

They always stay quiet.

That was Vanessa.

Clare looked at her, saw recognition and horror dawning on her face.

April 2015.

The Hoffman girl and her friend won’t stay quiet.

They’ve made copies.

They’re going to the dean.

Don’t they know Kensington is mine? That I own him? That he’s been covering for me since 2010 when I found out about his affair with a student? They think they’re heroes.

They’re about to become victims.

The entry continued detailing the plan.

The charter bus that was never meant to go to Riverside Manor.

The warehouse on Route 6.

The carbon monoxide.

How quickly it would be over.

They’ll sleep first.

Won’t even know what’s happening.

It’s merciful.

Really, more than they deserve for threatening everything I’ve built.

Clare felt sick.

Vanessa had turned away.

Hand over her mouth.

She’s a serial killer.

Clare whispered.

the Walsh girl in 2003.

How many others? She flipped through the diary faster.

More names, more years, girls who’d dropped out or transferred or run away from home.

Jennifer Walsh in 1999, Katie Morrison in 2001, Amanda Foster in 2006.

In 2008, she’d nearly killed Vanessa, but Vanessa had stayed quiet.

Sarah Vance in 2012.

And then 2015, 43 at once.

“Jesus Christ,” Vanessa breathed.

“She’s been killing for decades.

” Clare pulled out her phone.

“We call Detective Mills right now.

We don’t touch anything else.

We don’t move anything.

We get the police here immediately.

” But Vanessa wasn’t looking at the diary anymore.

She was staring at the storage unit door.

It was closing.

They both spun as the door rolled down with a metallic screech.

Clare lunged for it, but it slammed shut before she could reach it.

Darkness swallowed them, except for their phone flashlights.

No, no, no, no.

Clare hit the door, pushed against it, solid, locked from the outside.

Vanessa was already calling 911.

We’re trapped in a storage unit at store on Maple, unit 247.

We need The call dropped.

She looked at her phone.

No signal.

These units are metal.

It’s blocking everything.

Clare tried her own phone.

Same result.

One bar flickering in and out.

Not enough to make a call.

The security guard, she said.

He’ll do rounds eventually, right? Maybe.

Or maybe not until morning.

Vanessa’s voice was shaking.

Or maybe whoever locked us in is coming back.

They heard footsteps outside.

Slow, deliberate.

Hello, girls.

Meredith Thorne’s voice muffled through the metal door.

I got a call from my security system.

Someone broke into my storage unit.

Imagine my surprise when I checked the camera feed and saw Clare Hoffman and Vanessa Wright picking my lock.

We found everything.

Clare shouted.

The dresses, the phones, the diary.

The police are coming.

The police? Meredith laughed.

Did you call them before or after you broke into private property again? How many times do you think you can commit crimes in pursuit of your little truth quest before they stop taking you seriously? Vanessa moved closer to Clare.

Both of them backing toward the center of the unit.

You murdered 50 women over two decades.

Vanessa said, “That diary documents everything.

” “Does it?” Because I think that diary documents the paranoid fantasies of two women with a documented history of harassment and illegal activity.

Breaking into university property, breaking into my storage unit, making wild accusations.

Detective Hrix warned you both to stop, but you wouldn’t listen.

Hris is in custody, Clare said.

Silence, then.

Is he? That’s unfortunate, but I’m sure his lawyer will have him out soon.

Good lawyers can work miracles.

Mine certainly has over the years.

More footsteps.

Multiple people.

Now I brought help.

Meredith said we’re going to clean out this unit.

Get rid of all these old things I should have thrown away years ago.

And unfortunately, we’re going to find two bodies inside.

Tragic accident.

Carbon monoxide leak from a faulty heater I didn’t know was in here.

You broke in, got trapped, couldn’t call for help.

By the time anyone finds you, it’ll be too late.

No.

Clare slammed on the door.

“Help! Somebody help us!” “Scream all you want,” Meredith said.

“The overnight guard is on his break.

” “And these units are quite soundproof.

Believe me, I’ve tested that before.

” The footsteps moved away.

Clare and Vanessa stood in darkness, trapped with 43 dresses and evidence of two decades of murder, waiting for carbon monoxide to seep under the door.

Claire’s phone flashlight beam cut through the darkness, landing on vents near the ceiling.

Small metal grates.

That’s where the carbon monoxide would come from.

“We need to block those,” she said, already moving.

“Shirts, fabric, anything.

” Vanessa grabbed one of the pink dresses from the garment bags.

“No, we’re not using these.

They’re evidence.

We’re dead if we don’t.

” Clare yanked three dresses down, wading them into tight bundles.

She climbed onto a storage bin and shoved fabric into the first vent, packing it as tight as she could.

Vanessa did the same with the second vent, but there were four vents total.

And they could already smell it.

That faint, almost sweet odor that meant the gas was coming.

“How long do we have?” Vanessa asked.

“I don’t know, minutes, an hour.

” Claire’s hands were shaking as she blocked the third vent.

Depends on concentration, air flow, how much oxygen is in here already.

They blocked the fourth vent with Lauren’s dress.

Claire’s fingers brushed the monogram tag as she shoved it into place.

I’m sorry, she thought.

I’m so sorry.

My phone has one bar, Vanessa said, holding it up.

Sometimes it keeps flickering.

Try texting Mills.

Tell her where we are.

Vanessa typed frantically, hitting send over and over.

Not going through.

Not going through.

Clare jumped down from the bin and grabbed Meredith’s diary, flipping to the first page where she’d written about Jennifer Walsh in 1999.

We document everything right now.

We take photos of every page, every piece of evidence.

If we die in here, at least there’s a record.

They worked in frantic silence, photographing diary entries, dresses with monogram tags, the bins of phones.

Clare took pictures of financial documents, bank statements showing transfers dating back to 1997.

Vanessa filmed video, narrating what they’d found.

“This is evidence of multiple murders spanning 25 years,” Vanessa said into her phone camera, voice shaking.

Meredith Thorne, housemother of Delta Sigma sorority, has been killing women since at least 1999.

We found documentation of at least 50 victims.

She’s outside the storage unit right now pumping carbon monoxide in to kill us.

If you’re watching this, we’re at store on Maple Street, unit 247.

Get help.

She tried sending the video.

One bar loading.

Loading.

Failed.

Keep trying.

Clare said, “Every few minutes, eventually it’ll go through.

” They sat on the concrete floor, backs against storage bins, surrounded by evidence of decades of murder.

The air was getting thicker.

Clare’s head was starting to hurt.

“I’m sorry I didn’t report her in 2007,” Vanessa said quietly.

“If I had, Lauren would be alive.

Those 43 girls would be alive.

She would have killed you, too.

You know that, right? If you’d reported her, you’d be one of the girls who dropped out or ran away.

Maybe, but at least I would have tried.

Claire’s phone buzzed.

Text message from Susan Chen.

Detective Mills says they’re looking for Meredith.

Where are you? One bar.

Barely hanging on.

Clare typed back.

Trapped in storage unit.

Meredith here.

Sending carbon monoxide.

You store Maple Street unit 247.

Hurry.

The message sat there trying to send.

The bar flickered.

Failed.

“Come on,” Clare whispered.

“Come on, come on, come on.

” The bar appeared again.

The message went through.

Susan’s response came immediately.

Sending police now.

Hold on.

Police are coming, Clare said.

Susan got the message.

How long until they get here? I don’t know.

10 minutes, 20? They could both feel it now.

The drowsiness creeping in.

The headache getting worse.

Carbon monoxide poisoning didn’t hurt.

That’s what made it efficient.

You just got tired.

Fell asleep.

Never woke up.

Talk to me, Clare said.

Tell me about Olivia.

Keep me awake.

Vanessa’s words came out slow, slurred.

She was brilliant.

Wanted to be a civil rights lawyer.

She was already researching law schools her sophomore year.

Harvard, Yale.

She would have gotten in anywhere.

Lauren wanted to be a teacher.

Clare said elementary school.

She loved kids.

Used to volunteer at the library reading to them on Saturdays.

Olivia played piano.

Hated it as a kid, but then she fell in love with it.

Classical music.

Shopan.

She’d practice for hours.

Claire’s eyes were so heavy.

Lauren couldn’t carry a tune.

But she sang anyway.

In the car, in the shower, everywhere.

drove me crazy.

I’d give anything to hear it again.

Stay awake, Claire.

I’m trying.

Vanessa tried sending her video again.

One bar loading.

It went through.

It’s sent, she said.

The video sent to my cloud storage.

If we die, it’s there.

We’re not dying.

But Clare’s voice sounded far away, even to herself.

She thought about Lauren getting on that bus 5 years ago.

43 girls in pink dresses, excited about a formal, about dancing and drinking and being 19, not knowing that Meredith had already decided they were dead.

Had Lauren been scared at the end? Had she known what was happening, or had she just gotten drowsy like Clare was now, drifted off, thinking she’d wake up later? Sirens, distant, but getting closer.

Do you hear that? Vanessa grabbed Clare’s arm.

Police, stay awake.

They’re coming.

The sirens got louder, voices outside shouting, metal banging.

“Stand back from the door,” someone yelled.

Bolt cutters on the lock, the sound of metal snapping.

The door rolled up and cold air rushed in so sharp it hurt Clare’s lungs.

Paramedics swarmed into the unit.

Someone put an oxygen mask on Clare’s face.

Someone else grabbed Vanessa.

They were pulled outside onto the asphalt, surrounded by flashing lights.

Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks.

Detective Mills was there kneeling beside Clare.

Stay still.

You’re going to be okay.

Just breathe.

Clare pulled the oxygen mask aside.

Meredith, she was here.

She locked us in.

We know.

Officers are searching the area.

Mills looked back at the storage unit.

Is that Jesus Christ? Is that evidence? Everything, Clare said.

diary, financial records, the dresses, phones.

She documented all of it.

25 years of murders.

Vanessa was being loaded into an ambulance.

She caught Claire’s eye and nodded.

We did it.

Mills stood speaking into her radio.

I need crime scene texts at this location immediately.

Multiple homicide evidence.

Get the state forensics team here and find Meredith Thorne.

Issue a bolo.

Armed and dangerous.

But Meredith was already gone.

They found her car abandoned three blocks away, engine still warm.

Security footage from a nearby gas station showed her getting into a taxi heading toward the interstate.

By the time Clare was released from the hospital 6 hours later, Meredith Thorne had disappeared.

The news broke that afternoon.

University sorority house mother wanted in connection with multiple murders.

The story went national by evening.

43 families who’d been told their daughters died in an accident learned the truth.

They’d been murdered, systematically executed by a woman they’d trusted.

And Meredith’s diary revealed five more families who’d never known what happened to their daughters.

Girls who’d run away or dropped out decades ago.

Girls who’d been murdered and hidden while their families spent years wondering.

Clare watched the press conference from her hospital bed.

Detective Mills stood at a podium flanked by state police and FBI agents.

“We have issued a federal warrant for the arrest of Meredith Thorne on 53 counts of firstdegree murder,” Mills said.

“We believe she poses a significant danger to the public.

If anyone has information about her whereabouts, please contact authorities immediately.

” Dean Robert Kensington was arrested that afternoon.

His lawyers released a statement claiming he had no knowledge of the murders, only the financial improprieties, and that he’d been cooperating with Meredith under duress.

The university’s president resigned.

The board launched an internal investigation.

Delta Sigma’s national organization suspended the chapter indefinitely.

But Meredith was still out there somewhere.

Clare’s phone buzzed.

Text from unknown number.

You should have let them rest in peace.

Then a photo.

Meredith Thorne, sunglasses on, sitting in what looked like an airport terminal, smiling and underneath.

See you soon, Clare.

The FBI agent sitting in Clare’s living room looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

His name was Torres, and he’d been assigned to her case after Meredith’s text message.

They’d traced the number to a burner phone last pinged near the Canadian border before going dark.

She’s taunting you, Torres said, reviewing the message on Clare’s phone for the third time.

Classic narcissist behavior.

She thinks she’s smarter than everyone.

Untouchable.

She’s been untouchable for 25 years, Clare said.

Why would she think different now? Because this time we have evidence.

Real evidence.

The diary alone is enough to convict on multiple counts.

We’ve identified eight victims so far from her entries.

And forensic accounting has traced financial crimes back to 1997.

She can run, but she can’t hide forever.

But Meredith had money.

Decades of embezzled funds.

Nearly $800,000 according to the forensic team.

That bought a lot of hiding places.

Susan Chen had flown back to Portland after giving her statement, but she called Clare every day.

Vanessa Wright had moved into a hotel, afraid to go home after Meredith’s escape.

The three of them had become bound together by trauma and survival.

Two weeks passed.

The media frenzy continued.

Families of the 53 confirmed victims appeared on news programs demanding answers.

The university faced 17 lawsuits.

Detective Hendrickx was charged as an accessory to murder.

His lawyer was already negotiating a plea deal in exchange for testimony against Kensington and Meredith.

But Meredith stayed gone until the package arrived.

Clare found it on her doorstep on a Tuesday morning.

Plain brown box, no return address, her name written in familiar handwriting.

Neat, precise, Meredith’s handwriting.

She called Torres immediately.

He arrived with a bomb squad.

They x-rayed the package in Clare’s driveway while neighbors watched from windows.

No explosives, the tech said.

Looks like paper contents.

Maybe a book.

They opened it carefully.

Inside was a leather journal, newer than the diary from the storage unit, but the same style and a handwritten note on top.

Dear Clare, you wanted the truth.

Here’s more of it.

My insurance policy in case things went wrong, which they did thanks to you.

I’m giving this to you because I know what you’ll do with it.

You’ll give it to the police and it will destroy everyone I protected for so long.

Kensington wasn’t the first.

He wasn’t even the worst.

There are senators, judges, wealthy alumni who paid me very well over the years to make problems disappear.

Girls who threatened their careers, their marriages, their reputations.

I was the fixer, the one who made it clean.

You think you’ve won.

You’ve exposed me, ruined my life.

But when you read this journal, when you see whose names are in it, you’ll understand that I’m not the monster.

I’m just the one who did what powerful men didn’t have the stomach to do themselves.

I’ll be watching to see what you do with this information.

Will you be brave enough to bring down everyone, or will you learn, like I did, that some truths are too dangerous to tell.

Regards, Meredith Torres read the note, then carefully opened the journal.

His face went pale as he flipped through pages.

Jesus Christ, he muttered.

This is We need to get this to headquarters immediately.

What is it? Clare asked.

names, dates, payments.

She kept records of everyone who hired her.

Torres looked up.

There are senators in here, a federal judge, two university board members, business executives.

She wasn’t just killing to cover her embezzlement.

She was running a murder for hire operation disguised as institutional problemolving.

Clare felt dizzy.

How many? 53 confirmed murders.

According to this, she was paid for at least 30 of them.

Torres closed the journal.

This is going to destroy careers and political dynasties.

People with enormous resources are going to want this buried.

Are you saying we shouldn’t release it? I’m saying you need to understand what’s about to happen.

The first journal made Meredith a monster.

This one makes her a hitman for the rich and powerful.

And those people won’t go down quietly.

The journal was authenticated within 48 hours.

The FBI arrested three men named in its pages.

All of them immediately lawyered up with the most expensive defense attorneys money could buy.

Two more fled the country.

A senator from Virginia issued a statement claiming he’d been extorted by Meredith and was a victim, not a conspirator.

The media coverage shifted.

Some outlets started running think pieces about whether Meredith was really a mastermind or just a scapegoat for powerful men.

Defense lawyers planted stories suggesting the journal was fabricated, that Clare and the FBI were involved in a conspiracy to frame innocent people.

Clare watched it happen in real time.

The narrative spinning, truth becoming negotiable.

Susan called her furious.

They’re trying to make her sympathetic.

Poor victimized woman forced to commit crimes by powerful men.

It’s [ __ ] She murdered my daughter.

I know, Clare said.

But some people don’t want to believe their heroes are capable of this.

Then we make them believe.

We do interviews.

We tell our stories.

We don’t let them rewrite what happened.

They did interviews.

Claire, Susan, Vanessa.

They appeared on national news, showed Lauren’s notebook, talked about finding the dresses.

They made the victims real.

Showed photos of Lauren and Olivia and Jennifer Walsh and Katie Morrison.

Showed what was stolen.

Public opinion began to turn back.

Protests erupted outside the homes of the accused men.

Three more resigned from their positions before charges were even filed.

But Meredith was still out there.

Clare had stopped sleeping.

Well, every sound made her jump.

Every unknown car in her street made her check the locks.

Torres had assigned protection, an agent outside her apartment, another monitoring her movements.

But she knew if Meredith really wanted to get to her, a protective detail wouldn’t stop her.

The nightmares were worse.

Clare dreamed of Lauren getting on the bus, pink dress swirling, dreamed of 43 girls falling asleep and never waking up.

Dreamed of Meredith’s smile in that airport photo.

3 weeks after the second journal surfaced, Clare got another text from an unknown number.

You did well, Clare.

You exposed them all.

Now everyone knows the truth.

Are you satisfied? Clare’s hands shook as she forwarded it to Torres.

His response came immediately.

Don’t engage.

We’re tracing it now.

But Clare was done following instructions.

She texted back, “Where are you?” Three dots appeared.

Typing.

Then closer than you think.

Clare looked out her apartment window.

The street was empty except for Taurus’s agent sitting in an unmarked car.

Normal Tuesday afternoon.

Students walking to class.

Nothing suspicious.

Her phone rang.

Unknown number.

She answered.

Meredith.

Hello, Clare.

Meredith’s voice was calm, pleasant, like they were old friends catching up.

I’ve been watching your interviews.

Very compelling.

You’re quite good on camera.

Why are you calling me? Because it’s almost over.

The FBI has traced my financial accounts.

Not all of them, but enough.

They’re closing in.

I’ll be caught within the week, maybe sooner.

And I wanted to say something before that happens.

What? I’m not sorry.

Meredith’s voice hardened.

Not for Lauren.

Not for Olivia, not for any of them.

They threatened me.

They would have destroyed everything I built.

I protected myself.

That’s what people do.

They protect themselves.

You murdered 53 women.

I eliminated threats.

There’s a difference.

And the men who paid me, they eliminated threats to their power, their legacies.

We’re not that different, Clare.

You eliminated me to protect your sister’s memory.

Everyone’s protecting something.

I didn’t kill anyone.

No, you just destroyed dozens of lives.

Careers ended, families shattered, reputations ruined, all because you couldn’t let your sister rest in peace.

Meredith laughed softly.

Tell me, was it worth it? Do you feel better knowing the truth? Clare’s throat was tight.

Yes, liar.

You’re just as haunted now as you were before.

Maybe more.

Because now you know exactly how she died.

Now you have to live with those details forever.

Why are you really calling to tell you that they’ll catch me soon? Portugal probably.

I’ve been careless tired.

25 years of being careful and I’m finally tired.

So they’ll find me and I’ll go to trial and you’ll testify and I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison.

Meredith paused.

But I’ll always know something you don’t.

What’s that? Whether Lauren was awake when she died, whether she knew what was happening, whether she called for you at the end.

Meredith’s voice was poison.

That’s mine to keep forever.

The line went dead.

Clare sat there, phone pressed to her ear, tears streaming down her face.

Torres burst through the door 30 seconds later.

“We got her,” he said.

“Lisbon, local authorities are moving in now.

She’s done.

” But Clare barely heard him.

She was thinking about Lauren on that bus, wondering if her sister had been afraid.

If she’d suffered, if she’d known.

Some questions would never be answered.

Some truths would stay buried with the victims.

And Meredith was right about one thing.

Knowing hadn’t made the grief easier.

It had just given it sharper edges.

They arrested Meredith Thorne in a rental apartment overlooking the Teis River in Lisbon.

Portuguese authorities found her sitting on the balcony drinking wine, watching the sunset.

She didn’t resist, didn’t run, just asked if she could finish her glass first.

The extradition took 6 weeks.

Legal challenges, diplomatic procedures, lawyers fighting every step.

Clare watched it all from a distance, feeling nothing.

Number Susan called the day Meredith landed on US soil.

They’re bringing her to the federal courthouse tomorrow for arraignment.

I’m going.

Will you come? Clare hadn’t left her apartment in days.

The media had finally moved on to other stories, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Couldn’t stop hearing Meredith’s voice asking if Lauren had been awake when she died.

“I’ll be there,” she said.

The courthouse was surrounded by news trucks and protesters.

Families of the victims stood on the steps holding photos of their daughters.

Clare saw Lauren’s senior portrait blown up poster size held by her mother.

She hadn’t told her mom she was coming, couldn’t bear to face her yet.

Susan found her in the crowd.

Vanessa was there, too.

The three of them stood together as Meredith was brought in through a side entrance in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit.

She looked smaller than Clare remembered, older, but her expression was still calm, almost serene.

The arraignment lasted 20 minutes.

53 counts of first-degree murder, multiple counts of fraud, conspiracy, witness tampering.

The prosecutor asked for no bail, flight risk, danger to witnesses.

The judge agreed.

Meredith showed no emotion as they read the charges.

Just stood there, handsfolded like she was waiting for a bus.

But as they let her out, she turned and looked directly at Clare.

Their eyes met across the courtroom.

Meredith smiled.

Clare felt ice run through her veins.

The trial was set for 6 months out.

Clare tried to go back to her normal life.

Work, friends, routines, but everything felt hollow.

She’d spent so long searching for the truth that she didn’t know what to do now that she’d found it.

Her mother called every week asking her to come home to stop torturing herself.

You found out what happened to Lauren.

You brought the person responsible to justice.

That’s enough, honey.

You can let go now.

But Clare couldn’t let go because Meredith was right.

Knowing hadn’t brought peace.

It had just replaced mystery with horror.

Now when she thought of Lauren, she didn’t see her sister smile or hear her laugh.

She saw a bus full of girls breathing poison.

She saw pink dresses hanging in the dark.

She saw 43 closed caskets and families told lies.

The defense strategy became clear in pre-trial motions.

Meredith’s lawyers weren’t denying the murders they couldn’t.

Not with the journals, the physical evidence, her own documentation.

Instead, they were arguing diminished capacity.

Years of emotional abuse from powerful men who used her as their fixer.

Coercion.

PTSD.

A woman pushed beyond her breaking point.

Clare watched the legal maneuvering with growing disgust.

They were trying to make Meredith sympathetic, a victim herself of the system she’d served.

The trial began on a cold morning in February, almost a year after Clare had found Lauren’s notebook.

The prosecution’s case was overwhelming.

They had the journals, the financial records, the dresses with DNA evidence.

They had testimony from Hendrickx in Kensington, both of whom had taken plea deals to testify against Meredith.

They had families of victims who described how Meredith had comforted them at funerals, how she’d been trusted, how she’d used that trust to destroy lives.

Clare testified on day seven.

She walked the jury through finding the notebook, the investigation, the storage unit.

She showed them photos of the dresses, read passages from Meredith’s diary.

She described the moment Meredith locked them in the storage unit and pumped carbon monoxide through the vents.

Meredith watched her the entire time, face blank, like Clare was describing someone else’s crimes.

The defense called their witnesses, a psychiatrist who testified that Meredith showed signs of complex PTSD and dissociative disorders.

Former colleagues who described her as kind and maternal.

character witnesses who said she’d been a devoted employee, a caring figure to generations of students.

One defense witness was a former Delta Sigma member from the 1990s.

She testified that Meredith had been like a mother to her, had helped her through a difficult time after a sexual assault by a fraternity member.

She cried on the stand, saying she couldn’t reconcile the woman she knew with the murders.

The prosecutor’s cross-examination was brutal.

Did you know that the fraternity member who assaulted you disappeared 3 months after you reported the incident to Mrs.

Thorne? The woman looked confused.

He transferred schools.

That’s what I was told.

He was never found.

No transfer records exist.

His family reported him missing.

Did you know that? The woman’s face went white.

No, I didn’t know.

Did you know that Mrs.

Thorne documented killing him in her journal that she added his death to her list of problems solved.

The woman looked at Meredith, horror dawning.

Meredith met her eyes and smiled slightly like they shared a secret.

The defense rested after 2 weeks.

Closing arguments took a full day.

The prosecution painted Meredith as a calculating serial killer who’d operated for decades with impunity.

The defense painted her as a broken woman shaped by a corrupt system.

The jury deliberated for 6 hours.

Guilty on all 53 counts of firstdegree murder.

The courtroom erupted.

Families sobbed.

Reporters rushed out to file stories.

Clare sat frozen in her seat, watching Meredith’s face as the verdicts were read.

The woman showed no reaction, no tears, no anger, nothing.

Just that same calm expression like she was somewhere else entirely.

Sentencing was scheduled for 3 weeks later.

Clare attended that, too, though she almost didn’t.

She was so tired.

Tired of courtrooms and lawyers and journalists asking how she felt.

The judge gave Meredith life without parole on each count.

53 consecutive life sentences.

“You will die in prison,” the judge said.

“That is the only certainty I can offer the families of your victims.

” Meredith was given a chance to speak.

her lawyer advised against it, but she stood anyway.

I’m not going to apologize, she said clearly.

Because I’m not sorry.

Every person I killed was a threat to me, to the university, to powerful people who needed protection.

I did what needed to be done, and I did it well.

For 25 years, I solved problems that no one else had the stomach to solve.

The courtroom was silent.

You call me a monster, Meredith continued.

But I’m just honest about what people with power do.

They eliminate threats.

They protect their interests.

I was the tool they used.

The only difference between me and them is that I didn’t hide behind plausible deniability.

The judge cut her off.

Take her away.

As the marshals led her out, Meredith looked at Clare one last time.

And this time, Clare stared back, refusing to look away.

Meredith mouthed two words.

“Thank you.

” Then she was gone.

Clare didn’t understand until later, sitting in her car in the courthouse parking lot.

Susan knocked on her window.

“You okay?” Susan asked.

“She thanked me,” Clare said.

“Why did she thank me?” Susan was quiet for a moment.

“Because you gave her exactly what she wanted.

attention, recognition, her name in history.

We made her famous.

We exposed her.

We did.

But to her, it’s the same thing.

She spent 25 years working in secret.

Now everyone knows what she did.

She’s not a forgotten housemother anymore.

She’s a notorious serial killer.

In her twisted mind, we gave her immortality.

Clare put her head on the steering wheel.

We should have just let her disappear.

No, Susan said firmly.

The families deserve the truth.

Lauren and Olivia deserve justice.

Even if it means Meredith gets what she wanted, too.

Even if it means we have to live with knowing every detail.

Does it get easier? The knowing.

No, Susan said.

But at least we’re not alone with it anymore.

3 days after sentencing, Clare received one final letter.

Prison mail.

Meredith’s handwriting.

Dear Clare, you asked me once why I kept the dresses.

I never answered, so I’ll tell you now.

I kept them because they were beautiful.

Because 43 girls in pink dresses, all so young and bright and certain the world belonged to them.

That was art.

That was power.

I kept them to remember what I’d done, to know that I’d succeeded at something impossible.

Most people live small, forgettable lives.

I changed history.

You did, too.

In the end, you and Susan and Vanessa, three women against the world, refusing to accept the lies.

That takes a certain kind of strength.

The same strength I had, just pointed in a different direction.

I hope you find peace, Clare.

But I suspect you won’t.

The truth rarely brings peace.

It just brings clarity.

And clarity can be the heaviest burden of all.

You’re welcome for that clarity.

Meredith Clare burned the letter in her kitchen sink, watching the paper curl and blacken, but the words stayed with her.

She never answered it, never wrote back, never visited Meredith in prison, though she received multiple requests.

Some conversations didn’t deserve to continue.

Some monsters didn’t deserve the last word.

Two years passed.

Clare stood at the edge of the memorial garden behind the Delta Sigma House, watching workers install the final plaque.

The university had redesigned the space after the trial.

No longer 43 separate rose bushes, but a circular stone memorial with every victim’s name engraved, not just from 2015, but all 53 women Meredith had murdered over 25 years.

Jennifer Walsh, 1999.

Katie Morrison, 2001.

Amanda Foster, 2006.

Sarah Vance, 2012.

Lauren Hoffman, 2015.

Olivia Chen, 2015.

All the names, all the lives carved in stone so no one could forget.

The university had paid for it as part of a settlement with the families.

$40 million distributed among 53 families.

Blood money.

Clare’s mother had called it, but she’d taken it anyway.

Used some to start a scholarship fund in Lauren’s name.

Put the rest away, untouched, like keeping it locked up could somehow undo what the money represented.

It’s beautiful, Susan said, appearing beside Clare.

She’d driven down from Portland for the dedication ceremony.

Vanessa was coming, too.

She’d moved back to the area, started working as an advocate for victim’s families.

The three of them stayed in touch, bound together by shared trauma that no one else could fully understand.

Lauren would have hated it, Clare said.

All this attention, she just wanted to do the right thing quietly.

She did do the right thing.

We just had to finish it for her.

The ceremony was scheduled for 2:00.

By 1:30, the garden was filled with people.

Families of the victims, former Delta Sigma members, university administrators who’ taken over after the entire leadership resigned.

News cameras lined the back, though fewer than before.

The story had faded from headlines, replaced by newer tragedies.

Clare’s mother arrived with Clare’s aunt.

She looked smaller than Clare remembered, aged by grief in ways that two years and $40 million couldn’t fix.

She hugged Clare tightly.

“Your sister would be proud of you,” she whispered.

Clare wasn’t sure that was true.

Lauren had wanted to expose financial fraud, not uncover a quarter century of serial murder.

She’d wanted justice not to become a symbol of institutional failure and feminine courage.

She’d wanted to live, but she’d settled for being remembered.

They all had.

The university president new, hired specifically to rebuild trust, gave a speech about accountability and change, new oversight procedures for Greek life, mandatory financial audits, anonymous reporting systems, all the things that should have existed before 43 girls got on a bus.

Then the family spoke.

Katie Morrison’s father talked about his daughter’s love of photography.

Sarah Vance’s mother read a poem her daughter had written in high school.

One by one, they gave the victims back their identities, their dreams, their futures that had been stolen.

When it was Clare’s turn, she walked to the podium with Lauren’s old notebook in her hands.

The leather was worn now from being held so many times, examined by so many investigators.

My sister Lauren loved puzzles.

Clare said crosswords, sudoku, mystery novels.

She loved figuring things out.

So when she found discrepancies in the sorority’s financial records, she approached it like a puzzle.

She documented everything methodically, made copies, prepared evidence.

She was so careful.

Clare’s voice cracked.

But she couldn’t have known that the answer to this puzzle was that someone she trusted was a serial killer.

She couldn’t have known that asking questions would get her murdered along with 42 other women who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She looked out at the crowd.

Lauren died trying to do the right thing.

They all did.

And for 5 years, we were told to accept that their deaths were just a tragic accident.

To move on, to let them rest in peace.

Clare held up the notebook.

But my sister left me this.

She left me breadcrumbs to follow because she knew maybe somewhere deep down she knew that if she didn’t make it, someone needed to finish what she started.

So I did with Susan Chan and Vanessa Wright and Detective Sarah Mills and dozens of other people who refused to accept the lies we were told.

She set the notebook on the podium.

We can’t bring them back.

We can’t undo what was done, but we can make sure they’re remembered.

Not as victims of a tragic fire, but as women who were murdered by someone we trusted, protected by a system that valued reputation over truth.

Clare looked at Lauren’s name on the memorial.

I hope you’re proud, Lauren.

I hope wherever you are, you know that we didn’t let them bury the truth.

We finished your puzzle.

She stepped down and Susan was there, arms around her.

Then Vanessa, then Clare’s mother.

They stood together as the ceremony continued, as more families spoke, as roses were laid at the memorial.

When it was over and the crowd had dispersed, Clare walked to Lauren’s name and traced the letters with her finger.

The stone was cold and permanent, and nothing like her sister at all.

“Clare!” a voice behind her, young, tentative.

She turned.

A girl stood there, maybe 19, wearing a Delta Sigma t-shirt.

one of the new members from the rechartered chapter the university had allowed to form with strict new oversight.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the girl said.

“I just wanted to say thank you for what you did for not letting them cover it up.

I didn’t do it alone.

” “I know, but you started it.

You found the truth when everyone told you to stop looking.

” The girl hesitated.

“I’m from a small town.

My mom didn’t want me to come here after everything that happened, but I told her that what you did, exposing all of it, making sure it couldn’t happen again, that made me want to come here, to be part of building something better.

Clare didn’t know what to say.

She’d spent two years thinking of herself as someone who’d just torn things down, exposed horrors, destroyed lives.

She hadn’t considered that someone might see hope in that destruction.

What’s your name? Clare asked.

Emily.

Emily Rodriguez.

Lauren would have liked you, Emily.

She believed in fixing broken things, too.

The girl smiled and walked away.

Clare watched her go, this stranger carrying Lauren’s idealism, forward into a future her sister would never see.

Susan appeared at Clare’s elbow.

You ready to go? Yeah, I think so.

They walked out of the garden together.

Vanessa was waiting by the car and the three of them drove to a diner on the edge of town.

Their tradition now after every memorial event, pancakes and coffee and conversation about everything except murder and trials and the weight of knowing.

Claire’s phone buzzed.

A news alert.

Meredith Thorne found dead in prison cell.

Apparent suicide.

She stared at the screen.

Susan saw it too, read over her shoulder.

When? Susan asked.

Clareire clicked through to the article.

Last night they found her this morning.

Vanessa leaned in.

Does it say how? Overdose pills.

She’d been stockpiling her medication for weeks.

Clare kept reading.

She left a note.

Says she has no regrets.

That she lived according to her own principles.

That history will judge her more kindly than the court did.

Delusional to the end, Vanessa muttered.

But Clare was thinking about Meredith’s last letter, about clarity being the heaviest burden, about how the truth rarely brings peace.

“She got what she wanted,” Clare said quietly.

“She died on her own terms.

One last way to control the narrative.

” “Let her,” Susan said firmly.

“Let her think she won.

” “It doesn’t change what we did.

Doesn’t change that 53 families finally know the truth.

” They sat in silence for a moment, processing.

Another ending.

Another chapter closed.

“Do you feel anything?” Vanessa asked.

“About her being dead?” Clare thought about it.

Searched inside herself for rage or relief or satisfaction.

Found only exhaustion.

“No,” she said finally.

“I feel nothing.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe she doesn’t deserve to take up any more space in our lives.

” Susan raised her coffee cup.

To the ones who didn’t make it, to Lauren and Olivia and all the others, may they be remembered for who they were, not how they died.

They clinkedked cups, coffee and water and orange juice.

A toast to the dead.

A promise to keep living.

Clare drove home that night thinking about Lauren’s last text.

Formals boring.

Stealing you cake anyway.

Such a normal thing to say.

Such an ordinary promise between sisters.

She’d never gotten that piece of cake.

Never would.

But she’d gotten something else.

The truth that Lauren had died trying to expose.

The justice Lauren had been denied.

The ending to a puzzle her sister couldn’t finish.

It wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough, but it was something.

3 weeks later, Clare received an envelope in the mail.

Inside was a check from a publisher and a contract for a book about the case.

They wanted her to write it.

firstperson account, inside perspective, the sister who wouldn’t stop asking questions.

She thought about it for a long time.

Thought about reliving it all again, putting the horror into words, making Lauren’s death into a commodity.

But she also thought about Emily Rodriguez, the girl in the Delta Sigma shirt who’d said Clare’s pursuit of truth had given her hope.

She thought about the families who’d never known what happened to their daughters until Clare found that notebook.

She thought about future women who might be saved because this system had been exposed.

She signed the contract.

The book took her eight months to write.

She interviewed Susan and Vanessa, Detective Mills, families of the victims.

She went through Lauren’s notebook page by page, translating her sister’s neat handwriting into pros.

She wrote about the storage unit and the trial and the weight of knowing.

She dedicated it to Lauren, Olivia, and the 51 others.

You are not forgotten.

The book came out a year later.

It hit bestseller lists within a week.

Claire did interviews, went on book tours, answered the same questions over and over.

How did you find the strength to keep investigating? What was it like to discover the truth? Do you have closure now? She never knew how to answer that last one.

Closure felt like a luxury for people whose sisters died peacefully, naturally at the end of long lives.

Not for people whose sisters were murdered at 19 by someone they trusted.

But she had something.

Not closure, but understanding.

Not peace, but purpose.

Lauren’s death had meaning beyond tragedy because Clare had made sure it did.

5 years after finding the notebook, Clare returned to the memorial garden one last time.

It was early morning.

No one else around.

Just her and the stone and the names.

She placed a cupcake in front of Lauren’s name, chocolate with pink frosting, Lauren’s favorite.

The piece of cake she’d promised to bring home from formal finally delivered years too late.

I finished what you started, Clare said quietly.

I kept the promise you didn’t know you were making.

And I’m going to keep living even though you can’t because that’s what you would have wanted.

The stone didn’t answer, but the morning sun hit Lauren’s name just right, making the letters shine.

Clare stood there until the cupcake attracted bees until other people started arriving for the day.

Then she walked away back toward her car, back toward her life.

Behind her, 53 names stayed carved in stone, permanent, remembered, forever finished with being victims.

Finally remembered as women who’d lived.

That was enough.

It had to be.