CHAPTER 1
Despite a brain still foggy from endless champagne toasts, I was
feeling good. Yesterday had been a wonderful day. I finally had
something to celebrate, following the demise of what had once
promised to be a stellar legal career. My blog-turned-podcast,
Miranda Writes, had recently garnered enough attention that the
Sterling Broadcast Group had brought my closest supporters
and me to New York in a limousine to sign a lucrative contract
to host a daytime TV show. Things were looking up after a few
tough years.
We had arrived back to Old Lyme, CT in the early evening
and dropped off my dad and his girlfriend Sally, followed by my
best friend Tracey and her husband Dale. Then, with help from
the limo driver, I had carted all the floral arrangements and fruit
baskets from future sponsors into my house. I was awestruck by
the outpouring of support I had received. When I first started
blogging, I had never imagined that it would lead to this.
Honestly, back then I had been writing to maintain my sanity,
nothing more.
The local network affiliate had already started airing promos
of my upcoming show and I had stayed busy all night, fielding
phone calls, texts and emails from friends, neighbors and former
classmates. The calls stopped around 11:00 p.m., but I had lain
awake for hours, my mind buzzing with topics for shows and
names of legal experts I wanted to invite as guests. I had finally
fallen asleep and was still in bed, debating the merits of a pot of
home-brewed coffee and a slice of multigrain toast versus a
drive-through latte and a cinnamon roll roughly the size of my
head. My phone buzzed beside me. Probably a long-lost law
school classmate or a childhood friend calling to congratulate me
or to wish me well, I guessed. I checked the time as I found my
phone. 5:45 a.m. Too early for a friendly call, I thought with a
flicker of concern. Hmmm, unknown number.
“Hello.”
“Um, hello. Is this Miss Quinn?” The voice was soft but
familiar.
“Yes, this is Miranda. Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I need to talk to you, Miss Quinn. I don’t know
if you remember me—”
“Who is this?” I asked, barely masking my annoyance. I was
rarely up for a game of twenty questions, and never before I had
my coffee.
“It’s, um. Becky. Becky Lewis.” I sat bolt upright in bed, the
chill I felt having nothing to do with the sudden loss of my down
comforter. Becky Lewis? Yes, I certainly remembered her.
“Becky? Of course, I remember you. What’s um, up?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Quinn. Really, I am. I saw you on TV last
night and I thought I should get in touch with you about what
happened.” I was struggling to follow her. What had happened?
“What do you mean?”
“He did it again, Miss Quinn. He hurt that girl. Just like me
and the other one.” My heart sank. I knew who she meant. Of
course, I did. Three years ago, I’d had the chance to put him
away, and I had blown it. Now he had attacked another woman,
and it was all my fault. This one was most definitely on me. But
I still needed to ask. To be sure.
“Who, Becky? Who is he? What did he do?”
“Terry. Terry Kane. He raped another girl.”
