The blinds in Norman Drake’s office rattled faintly in the draft, casting narrow bars of shadow across the cluttered desk. The computer monitor glowed with the dull gray of paused footage, throwing harsh light across his face. A coffee mug sat nearby, half-drained, its ring of residue drying into brown stains. The air smelled faintly of paper and burnt caffeine—ordinary, domestic scents that did nothing to soften the unease curling in his chest.
He had been watching for hours. His shoulders ached from hunching forward, his eyes burned from squinting at grainy black-and-white frames, but he couldn’t stop. Three women, three therapists, three suicides—officially closed cases. But here, on his screen, he was certain, lay the reason they weren’t suicides at all.
The first file loaded. Two mo
