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listened
     to his story. Our stories all have a common thread. They all end with our addiction
     taking a claw hammer to our lives. This is part of what these meetings do for me.
     They remind me. And next time I want a drink, I’ll remember that man standing up there
     tonight, thirty years old and utterly terrified he’s not strong enough to do what
     he knows he must do—stop or die.
    I found Rauser at home with a Braves game on television, a baseball cap on backward,
     Hank lying next to him and White Trash in his lap. He was sipping bourbon on the rocks.
     “You hungry?” he asked. His eyes hadn’t left the television. “I ordered Indian.”
    “Starved,” I said, and filled a glass with crushed ice and Diet Pepsi. I know, I know.
     It’s frowned on here. It’s a
Coca-Cola
town. Atlanta will forgive you for a lot of things, but being disloyal to the brand
     is just over the line. I have to sneak out to the grocery store in the dark of night
     with a fake mustache and glasses to buy what is generally referred to in Atlanta as
     swill.
    We propped up on the floor once the food arrived with our backs against the couch
     and our plates in our laps. We seldom had time to do this without someone’s phone
     going off. Our schedules are like that. Inertia or frenzy. There is rarely middle
     ground. Tonight was blissfully quiet as we pulled off pieces of naan and raked it
     through spicy eggplant and lentils and mint chutney. Rauser kissed me and the bourbon
     was warm on his lips. I wanted a drink every time I smelled it. But I would have never
     admitted this to him.
    After dinner, I found the reports from Sheriff Meltzer I hadn’t had time to absorb
     in the car with Latisha. Rauser was glued to the television. I wouldn’t have known
     he even noticed I’d moved to the couch behind him except that he leaned his head back
     against me. This isjust one of the things I love about the man. He’s not the least bit threatened when
     my attentions are diverted.
    I began reading the reports from the crime lab on the case of two dead girls discovered
     at the bottom of an embankment in Hitchiti County. Both victims had bone injuries.
     A forensic anthropologist had determined that the significant bone injuries occurred
     in life, not after death. But when the injuries had occurred in their young lives
     was unknown. Tracy had chips and fractures in her wrists, ankles, and feet. Her arm
     had been broken. Melinda had sustained similar injuries to her ankles, plus several
     other fractures. Melinda’s body hadn’t been in that hole long enough to disguise superficial
     curiosity marks on her arms and face—the point of a knife. Not deep. The killer was
     experimenting, still inventing himself. I began making notes of things I’d need from
     the sheriff. Interviews with the parents were at the top of my list. They would know
     if and when their children had been injured. I’d need medical records, which would
     confirm the parents’ statements. I wanted to know if domestic abuse reports had ever
     been filed on their residences. The sheriff had excluded the families as suspects.
     I wanted to know why. I had some ideas about the breaks and fractures, their severity
     or lack thereof, and the location of the injuries. I’d seen similar injuries to ankles
     and wrists in victims who had been restrained, beaten, handled, victims who had fought
     and struggled with their restraints. But I needed to know more about these girls’
     physical conditions at the time they were abducted in order to develop a clearer understanding
     of their environment while they were prisoners and of the person who abducted and
     murdered them.
    I went over the photos from the disposal site again—Tracy’s bony remains peeking though
     leaves, Melinda’s nude corpse draped around the rock that had kept her from hitting
     bottom. The blouse the fisherman and his son pulled off the bank had been the only
     article of clothing found. Trace