“It has to be hard, of course, to get back to normal. But I understand the university has extended an open invitation for whenever you’re ready?”

Megan had long since stopped questioning people’s fascinations with her abduction, and the public’s unquenchable thirst for the morbid details of her captivity. And now, their lust for her to proceed as though nothing happened. She stopped questioning all of these things when she finally understood the reasoning behind them. She knew attending Duke University and carrying on a normal life would allow all those who feasted on the morose details of her ordeal to feel good about themselves. Her normalness was their escape from sin. Otherwise, how could they or Dante Campbell yearn so badly to hear the disturbing details of Megan’s abduction if she were still reeling from that event? If she were a broken girl whose life was a wreck and would never be the same, their vigor for her story would simply be unacceptable. They couldn’t allow themselves to be so attracted to her narrative if it ended any way but beautifully. If she were healed, however, if she were moving on with her new, therapeutic book and taking a shiny seat in the freshman class at Duke University, and if she were a success . . . well, then they all could burrow like maggots into the meaty flesh of her disturbing story and fly away clean and pearly as though no metamorphosis had occurred.

Megan McDonald needed to be a success story. It was as simple as that.

“Yes,” Megan finally said. “Duke has given me many options for next semester or even next year.”

Dante Campbell smiled again, her eyes soft. “Well, I know you’ve been through a lot, and you are an inspiration to survivors of abduction everywhere. And we know this book will certainly be a beacon of hope for them. Would you come back and talk to us again sometime? Give us an update?”

“Of course.” Thin smile.

“Megan McDonald. Good luck to you.”

“Thank you.”

After repeating where Missing could be purchased, Ms. Campbell sent things off to commercial break and the studio was again loud with voices from the dark area behind the cameras.

“You did really well,” Dante Campbell said.

“You never asked about Nicole.”

“It was just a timing thing, hon. We were running late. But we’ll put a link about Nicole up on the website.”

And with that, Dante Campbell was up and past her, offering a gentle pat on Megan’s shoulder. Megan nodded, alone in the studio chair. This, too, she understood. Today’s interview could only include the pretty details. The inspiring parts. The heroic escape and the bright future and the girls who were sure to be helped by the book. This morning’s interview was a conclusion to the Megan McDonald drama and it had to end with success. It could include none of the ugly elements that still lingered about that summer. Especially about Nicole.

Nicole Cutty was gone. Nicole Cutty was not a success story.

PART I

“A life might end, but sometimes their case lives forever.”

—Gerald Colt, MD

CHAPTER 1

September 2017

Twelve Months Since Megan’s Escape

Why forensic pathology?

It was a question asked of Livia Cutty at each of her fellowship interviews. Generic answers might have included the desire to help families find closure, the love of science, and the craving to tackle the challenge of finding answers where others see questions.

These were fine answers and likely given by many of her colleagues who were now in fellowship spots just like her own. But Livia’s response, she was certain, was unlike any of her peers’. There was a reason Livia Cutty was so sought-after. An explanation for why she was accepted by every program to which she had applied. She had the grades in medical school and the achievements in residency. She was published and came with sterling recommendations from her residency chairs. But these accolades alone did not set her apart; many of her colleagues possessed similar résumés. There was something else about Livia Cutty. She had a story.

“My sister went missing last year,” Livia said at each interview. “I chose forensics because someday my parents and I will get a call that her body has been found. We will have many questions about what happened to her. About who took her, and what they did to her. I want those questions answered by someone who cares. By someone with compassion. By someone with the skill to read the story my sister’s body will tell. Through my training, I want to be that person. When a body comes to me with questions surrounding it, I want to answer those questions for the family with the same care, compassion, and expertise I hope to receive someday from whoever calls me about my sister.”

As the offers came in, Livia considered her options. The more she thought, the more obvious her choice became. Raleigh, North Carolina, was close to where she grew up in Emerson Bay. It was a prestigious and well-funded program, and it was run by Dr. Gerald Colt, widely considered in the world of forensics as a pioneer. Livia was happy to be part of his team.

The other draw, although she tortured herself when she considered it, was that with the promise of performing 250 to 300 autopsies during her year of fellowship training, Livia knew it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that a jogger somewhere might stumble over a shallow grave and find the remains of her sister. Every time a Jane Doe rolled into the morgue, Livia wondered if it was Nicole. Unzipping the black vinyl bag and taking a fast glance at the body was all it usually took to dispel her fear. In her two months at the OCME, many Jane Does had entered her morgue, but none left under the same anonymous name. They had all been identified, and none as her sister. Livia knew she might spend her entire career waiting for Nicole to arrive in her morgue, but that day would stay somewhere in the ether of the future. A moment suspended in time that Livia would chase but never catch.

Capturing that moment, though, was less important than the chase. For Livia, perusing a fictitious time in the future was just enough to lessen her regret. Soften the edges so she could live with herself. The hunt gave her a sense of purpose. Allowed Livia the feeling that she was doing something for her younger sister, since God knew she hadn’t done enough for Nicole when her efforts could have been noticed. Vivid dreams of her cell phone occupied Livia’s nights, bright and glowing and carrying Nicole’s name as it buzzed and chimed.

Livia held her phone while it rang that night but had decided not to answer it. Midnight on a Saturday was never a good time to talk with Nicole, and Livia had decided that night to avoid the drama waiting on the other end of the call. Now, Livia would live without knowing if taking that call the night Nicole disappeared would have made any difference for her younger sister.

So, imagining a time in the future where Livia might find redemption, where she might help her sister by using whatever gifts her hands and mind possessed, was the fuel needed to get through life.

*

After morning rounds with Dr. Colt and the other fellows, Livia settled into the single autopsy assigned to her for the day. A straightforward junkie who died of an overdose. The body lay on Livia’s table, intubation tubes spilling from his gaping mouth where paramedics tried to save him. Dr. Colt required forty-five minutes to complete a routine autopsy, which ODs were considered. Two months into her fellowship, Livia had brought her times down from more than two hours to an hour and a half. Progress was all Dr. Colt asked from his fellows, and Livia Cutty was making it.

Today, it took one hour twenty-two minutes to perform the external and internal examination of the overdose in front of her, determining the cause of death to be cardiac arrest due to acute opiate intoxication. Manner of death: accident.

Livia was wrapping up paperwork in the fellows’ office when Dr. Colt knocked on the open door.

“How was your morning?”

“Heroin overdose, unremarkable,” Livia said from behind her desk.

“Time?”

“One twenty-two.”

Dr. Colt pouted his lower lip. “Two months in, that’s good. Better than any of the other fellows.”

“You said it wasn’t a competition.”

“It’s not,” Dr. Colt said. “But so far, you’re winning. Can you handle a double today?”

Supervising physicians routinely performed multiple autopsies in a day, and all the fellows would be expected to increase their caseloads once they brought their times down and got the hang of the overwhelming paperwork that went along with each body. With her fellowship running twelve months—from July to July—working five days a week, with stretches of time away from the autopsy suite observing other subspecialties, two weeks dedicated to ride-alongs with the medicolegal investigators, plus days spent in court or participating in mock trials with law students, Livia knew that to reach the magic number of 250 autopsies the program promised, she would eventually have to log more than a single case each day.