All of them.

That night.

In that location.

The emergency phones in that quarter of campus had been down.

There were, they assured me, no witnesses to be found.

Every single detail was too clean, too convenient, arranged too neatly into a shape that added up to nothing can be proven. I had spent a career reading exactly this kind of pattern, and I read it now with a cold and rising fury: someone had begun erasing the evidence of what happened to my daughter before she had even been wheeled into the emergency room.

This was not the chaos of an ordinary crime.