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S aturday morning, Livia was on the road before dawn.

She passed the occasional eighteen-wheeler making a long haul from the north, but otherwise the highway was hers.

She considered Casey Delevan, Nancy Dee, Paula D’Amato, Megan McDonald, and whether she could convince the police that a connection existed between them all.

She wondered if Nicole played into that connection, and whether the delusional grandeur of a demented club had anything to do with all these missing girls.

Livia’s mind returned to her fellowship interview, where she stored in her suppressed thoughts the idea that Nicole’s body could turn up the same way Nancy Dee’s and Paula D’Amato’s had.

She thought of Nicole’s body being transported to her autopsy table, where it would silently beg Livia to find the answers it held and put to rest the many questions Livia and her parents still asked about the night Nicole disappeared.

Instead though, Casey Delevan had arrived in her morgue.

And in place of answers, the case had only caused more speculation that sent Livia into bordering states searching for revelations about other missing girls.

As the sun crested the horizon behind her and stretched the shadow of her car into a thin black ghost along the road in front of her, Livia realized she was chasing more than the ghost of her lost sister.

Maybe it had taken Casey Delevan’s decomposed body to force her into action.

Maybe a year of denial and avoidance had finally run its course.

Perhaps action was the only logical next step if forgetting about Nicole was the alternative.

Whatever the reason, Livia knew she couldn’t stop until she possessed the answers she craved.

And if those answers didn’t fully provide closure for herself, or quell the guilt about her fledging relationship with Nicole, perhaps finding a resolution for the Dee and D’Amato families would provide something else.

A balm needed to heal wounds that would otherwise remain exposed and gaping.

She had pulled all the strings her feeble position as a fellow in forensic pathology allowed in order to convince the coroner of Decatur, Georgia, to meet her on a Saturday.

The sun was at its peak by noon when she found the headquarters building of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.

The parking lot was mostly empty. Livia entered the front door and gave her name to the security guard behind the desk.

He picked up the phone to announce Dr. Cutty’s arrival, and a few minutes later a fiftysomething woman entered the lobby.

“Hi,” she said. “Denise Rettenburg.”

“Livia Cutty. Thanks for meeting me today.”

“I’ve got a case, so I had to come in anyway,” Dr. Rettenburg said. “Follow me. Thanks, Bruce,” she said to the security guard before leading Livia into the building. They approached an elevator where Dr. Rettenburg pressed the up button.

“So why is Raleigh so interested in Paula D’Amato?”

The doors opened and Livia followed Denise Rettenburg into the elevator.

“Maybe for no reason,” Livia said. “But we’ve seen a few cases of young women with similar findings, so I wanted to have a look to see if we can make any connections.”

“Sounds like police work.”

“Right now, it’s nothing more than suspicion. I need some facts before I take anything to the police.”

Dr. Rettenburg smiled. “You sound like a Dr. Colt fellow. Facts first.”

The doors opened and they shuffled out of the elevator and walked the empty hallway.

“So this is a personal inquisition, or does Dr. Colt know about it?”

“Dr. Colt is familiar with the case that got me onto my suspicions. A homicide case from late summer. But about the D’Amato case, I’m down here now on my own.”

Dr. Rettenburg seemed to analyze this last statement. “Who are the other cases?” she asked. “The other girls you think D’Amato is connected to.”

“Two others. One is a girl named Nancy Dee. You know anything about that?”

“No. A Raleigh case?”

Livia shook her head. “Virginia. But same MO as D’Amato—her body was found in a shallow grave in the woods. She died of an acute overdose of ketamine. ”

Dr. Rettenburg looked at Livia as they walked. “Ketamine?”

“Yeah. Tell me, was ketamine found in Paula D’Amato’s toxicology report?”

“It was.”

“Was that the cause of death? Ketamine overdose?”

“No.” Dr. Rettenburg slowed and pointed to the doorway of her office. “She was beaten to death.”

* * *

The autopsy photos were fanned out on Dr. Rettenburg’s desk and Livia took her time studying them.

They showed Paula D’Amato’s body on the morgue table, her skin pale and blue and stretched in the same bloated way she’d seen so many other bodies in the last few months.

Paula D’Amato had died recently, that was certain.

Her body was not decomposed and death had come shortly before the autopsy exam.

“What sort of timing did you come up with?” Livia asked.

“About forty-eight hours at time of exam. In the woods for two nights, we suspect. The only thing that slowed down the carnivores was the body bag.”

Livia leafed through crime scene photos next, which showed a black vinyl body bag lying in a wooded area heavily covered by leaves.

Corners of the bag were ragged from the animals eager to get at the rotting flesh it held.

The body sat on the precipice of a shallow grave, a mound of dirt next to it.

“What are the thoughts on the crime scene?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” Dr. Rettenburg said.

“No one quite knows what to make of it. Detectives figure the perp got interrupted in the middle of digging the grave. The site wasn’t too far into the woods, so it’s possible someone spooked this guy and he had to abandon the disposal.

That’s the working theory currently. Problem is, Homicide thinks the guy had lights set up. ”

“Lights?”

“Yeah, like he was getting rid of her at night. They found marks in the dirt that suggested some heavy-duty or high-powered spotlights, run from a battery or a gas-powered generator.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because to break those down and move them takes effort. And time. If he got spooked by a passerby, it’s hard to imagine he took the time to douse the lights and disassemble the stand but didn’t bother to bury the body.”

“Yeah,” Livia said, still paging through the photos. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Homicide is working to track down anyone who might’ve been in the area over the last week or so. Haven’t found anyone yet. But the fear is that if the only reason we found Paula D’Amato was because this guy got interrupted digging her grave, how many more girls are out there?”

Livia nodded. She pretended to continue looking over the photos, but her vision faded as Dr. Rettenburg verbalized her thoughts. The only thing Denise Rettenburg failed to mention was that one of those girls was Nicole.

“Are you okay, Dr. Cutty?”

Livia looked up from the photos, shaking the image out of her mind. “Sorry. Tell me about the autopsy.”

Dr. Rettenburg slid a folder across her desk. She spoke from memory while Livia paged through the report. “We figured she was dead for two days when she was found. Body showed signs of restraint, specifically chafing to the left ankle. Signs of sexual abuse, likely repeated and chronic.”

“When did she go missing?”

“Two years ago.”

“Christ,” Livia said.

“Acute physical abuse,” Dr. Rettenburg continued. “Bruising to the face, head, arms, and torso. Damage to the strap muscles from manual strangulation. She fought, too. Broken toes from kicking. Bruising to her knuckles. Defensive wounds to her forearms.”

“Were there signs of chronic abuse?”

“Sadly, yes. She had a poorly healed fibula fracture estimated to be from roughly a year ago, and a broken rib in the early phases of healing. Plus an array or abrasions and scars of various age. Sexual abuse was clearly chronic.”

“So for two long years, the son of a bitch had his way with her until he decided he’d had enough?”

“I’ll let the detectives determine that, Dr. Cutty.”

Livia turned the page. “Can you tell me about the toxicology report?”

“We did find ketamine in her system, along with diazepam. It was recently administered not long before death, based on the level of metabolism. It looks like it was ingested in lemonade.”

Livia shook her head. “The Virginia case was a straight ketamine overdose—both ingested orally and injected intramuscularly. No acute physical abuse. So, either by accident or with intent, he killed Nancy Dee by administering too much ketamine. Why not do the same here? Why give her the meds and then beat and strangle her?”

“Maybe the two cases are not related. We can only tell the story the body tells us, Dr. Cutty. Leave the speculation to the detectives.” Dr. Rettenburg waited as Livia wrestled with the limitations of their profession. “What are the links to the other cases?” she finally asked.

“Ketamine is the strongest,” Livia said.

“Yes, that was an odd finding. Usually used in veterinary medicine.”

“Right, and I can link it to two other cases.”

“The girl in Virginia and who else?”

“Megan McDonald.”

“Megan McDonald of Emerson Bay?”

Livia nodded. “The night she escaped, she was found to have a large amount of ketamine in her system.” Livia looked up from the report.

“This guy OD’d Nancy Dee, perhaps tried to do the same to Paula D’Amato until he took measures into his own hands, and filled Megan McDonald with ketamine just before he meant to kill her.

She escaped from that bunker and ran for her life until Arthur Steinman picked her up on Highway Fifty-Seven. ”

Denise Rettenburg slowly nodded her head. “That’s some good detective work from a Gerald Colt fellow.”

Livia paged again through the autopsy report.

“The other connection comes from the fibers found in the girls’ hair.

The same fibers discovered in Nancy Dee’s hair were discovered in Megan McDonald’s the night she was brought to the hospital.

From Megan’s recounting of the night she escaped, we know a burlap bag was placed on her head.

This bag was recovered from the bunker. Fiber analysis from the material in Megan’s hair not only matched the bag they recovered, but also fibers found on Nancy Dee’s body. It was the same burlap, at least.”

“Well, now that’s interesting.” Dr. Rettenburg paged through the photos that sat in front of Livia, then slid one out into the open. “The D’Amato girl was found with a burlap sack over her head.”

Livia looked more closely at the photo. She hadn’t noticed it the first time. “A sack over her head and inside a body bag?”

“Correct.”

“Did you run that sack?”

Dr. Rettenburg paged through a folder and slid the fiber analysis across her desk.

Livia pulled a copy of Nancy Dee’s and Megan’s fiber analyses from her purse and laid all three in front of her for comparison. “They all come back as hemp woven burlap. Same fiber width, same grade.”

Livia looked up at Denise Rettenburg, who raised her eyebrows.

“I’d say you have a compelling case, Dr. Cutty.”

* * *

Livia helped Denise Rettenburg reorganize the D’Amato file, then followed her out into the hallway and waited in front of the elevator doors.

“Gerald Colt was a year ahead of me in medical school,” Dr. Rettenburg said.

“Oh yeah?” Livia said. “Dr. Colt is a great mentor.”

“I hear he’s doing wonderful things in Raleigh.”

The elevator doors opened and they both entered. Dr. Rettenburg pressed the button for the lobby, and Livia waited for the doors to close.

“Is Gerald the one who made the ketamine connection?” Dr. Rettenburg asked.

“No,” Livia said. “I found it.”

“It’s a great catch. I thought perhaps Gerald’s wife played a role.”

Livia started to say something, then stopped. Confused, she finally said, “This case wasn’t on Dr. Colt’s radar. Otherwise I’m sure he’d have picked this up.”

“Of course,” Dr. Rettenburg said. She pressed the button to hurry the process of the elevator doors closing. In the lobby, she walked Livia to the front door.

“Thanks for taking the time on a Saturday,” Livia said.

“Good luck to you.”

Dr. Rettenburg watched Gerald Colt’s fellow drive away, then headed back to her office.

She thought perhaps she’d misspoken in the elevator by suggesting Gerald’s wife had helped make the ketamine connection.

At her computer, Dr. Rettenburg typed her query into the search engine and waited for the results.

She scrolled down and read. Yes, she thought she was correct.

Gerald Colt’s wife was a veterinarian with a large clinic in Summer Side, just north of Raleigh.