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unruly. Her clothes were earth-toned and frumpy. She looked every bit of her forty-five years, and still, people found her attractive. Not because of how she looked, but because of her willingness to listen. That quality made people want to talk to Kirsten Douglas. That was what made her so good at her job.
    Packing her notebook and pen into the oversized pockets of her old raincoat, Kirsten broke away from the pack and walked toward the park’s exit.
    “Hey, where you going?” an Inquirer reporter shouted after her.
    “I’ll be back,” Kirsten said. “I’ve gotta get something out of my car.”
    She walked for three minutes, though it seemed like forever, passing by the front of the golf driving range as she exited the park. Police cars blocked traffic from entering the park, and police cars and vans darted up and down nearby streets. But as the rain poured down in ever-thickening sheets and Kirsten turned right on Thirty-third Street, she decided that she would somehow get around them.
    Walking along the border of a struggling neighborhood known as Strawberry Mansion, she looked across the street at abandoned houses and refurbished ones that shared the block with a garage. One of those houses had once belonged to jazz great John Coltrane, and its ramshackle appearance starkly contrasted the shiny state historic marker out front.
    Kirsten had seen such neighborhoods many times during her years as a crime reporter. Along the way, she’d won accolades and national awards while filing stories on everything from street gangs to the mob. Her skills had won her the grudging respect of cops and criminals alike, but it had also earned her enemies. Kirsten didn’t care. She was much more concerned with finding the truth than making friends, so she walked along the gate that separated the driving range from the street, and when she found her way in, she took it.
    Ducking through a hole in the fence near the rear of the driving range, she made her way toward the line of trees. Once she walked into the forest, she felt as if she’d entered a different world.
    She could still see the swirling dome lights and yellow barricades in the distance, but it was dark behind those trees, and the lack of light made her feel all alone. It also made her feel something she’d never experienced in all her years of dealing with thugs and murderers. It made her feel fear.
    Swallowing hard, she began the difficult trek through slick leaves, fallen tree trunks, and thick brush. Thankfully, there were paths cut through the forest to accommodate the disc golf course, but those paths were empty now, and the terrain was made more difficult by her unfamiliarity. She walked up muddy slopes, stepping on planks that had been placed along parts of the path like crude bridges. She leaned against fallen trees, pulled on hanging vines, and cut her hands on the ends of errant branches.
    For fifteen minutes, she walked through the forest, doubling back more than once and passing a tree that bore a heart with the words “Tom and Jean forever.” When, finally, she figured out how to move through the forest by following the paths along the empty disc golf course, the clouds overhead thickened, the woods got darker, and Kirsten was forced to depend less on her sight than on her other senses. She could smell the wet leaves and the pungent urine of animals that had marked their territory. She could smell the moss on the trees and the alcohol in discarded beer bottles. Mingled somewhere beneath those odors, she could smell herself. She was sweating.
    Kirsten leaned against a tree to rest as the rain began coming down harder. It was now close to impossible to see where she was going. That frightened her, so she took a deep breath and closed her eyes in an attempt to calm herself. Then she listened as a wind gust swept through the trees, increasing in volume until it sounded almost like a jet engine roaring to life. Kirsten’s eyes snapped open when she heard it,