And your photos just show pink dresses and storage boxes without DNA testing proving those specific dresses were worn by the victims.

They’re just formal wear.

Then test them when you find them, Susan said.

Meredith moved them.

She has to have put them somewhere.

Meredith Thorne is currently in Clearwater, Florida.

We’ve contacted local authorities, but she lawyered up immediately.

She’s not talking, and without a warrant, we can’t search her property.

What about Kensington? Clare asked.

Dean Robert Kensington is also refusing to speak without his attorney present.

The university has issued a statement saying they’re cooperating fully with the investigation, but between you and me, their lawyers are already building a case that any financial irregularities were handled internally and resolved years ago.

Resolved by murdering 43 women, Susan said flatly.

Mills looked at her with something like sympathy.

I believe you.

I believe this recording, but belief isn’t enough.

We need evidence that will hold up in court.

Right now, all we have is Hrix’s confession during an illegal break-in.

His lawyer is already claiming enttrapment and coercion.

Clare felt the hope that had been building since Hrix’s arrest start to crumble.

So, they get away with it.

I didn’t say that.

Mills pulled out a folder and slid it across the table.

Hrix has been a detective for 23 years.

He’s worked hundreds of cases.

If he covered this up, chances are he wasn’t careful every single time.

We’re pulling all his old case files, looking for patterns, financial crimes that got dropped, investigations that went nowhere.

We find enough smoke, we can build a case for corruption that includes the sorority murders.

That could take months, Susan said.

It could.

Or we could get lucky and find something tomorrow.

Police work is patient work.

Mills closed her folder.

In the meantime, I need you both to stay available for follow-up interviews.

And Clareire, no more breaking into university buildings.

They left the station at dawn.

The sky was bruising purple at the edges.

Sunrise still an hour away.

Clare drove Susan back to the coffee shop where they’d left her car.

“What do we do now?” Clare asked.

Susan stared out the window.

“We wait like we’ve been waiting for 5 years.

I can’t just wait.

Not after everything we found.

Then what? Break into Meredith’s house in Florida? Confront Kensington on campus? We’re not detectives, Clare.

We’re just two grieving people who got further than we probably should have.

Lauren didn’t hide that notebook so I could give up halfway.

Lauren hid that notebook so someone would know the truth.

We know the truth.

We told the police.

That’s all we can do.

Clareire dropped Susan at her car and watched her drive away, tail lights disappearing into the gray morning.

Everything felt unfinished.

Hrix was arrested, but he was right.

Without physical evidence, without the dresses, without Meredith’s confession, it was just accusations and a recording that might not hold up in court.

She drove back to her apartment 3 hours away, exhaustion pulling at her like gravity.

She needed to sleep, needed to think, needed to figure out what came next.

But when she pulled into her parking lot, there was a car waiting.

Black sedan, engine off.

A woman sat in the driver’s seat watching.

Clare almost drove away, almost called the police.

But something about the woman’s posture, hunched, defeated, made her stop.

The woman got out slowly.

She was in her 40s.

Professional clothes wrinkled like she’d been wearing them for days.

Her eyes were red- rimmed.

“Claire Hoffman,” she asked.

“Who are you?” “My name is Vanessa Wright.

I was in Delta Sigma, class of 2008, the name from Clare’s research, the alumni who’d been at the memorial service.

I need to talk to you about Meredith Thorne.

” They sat in Clare’s apartment.

Vanessa held a cup of tea she didn’t drink, hands shaking slightly.

“I knew,” Vanessa said finally.

Not about the murders, but about the money.

I figured it out in 2007, my senior year.

I was treasurer before Lauren.

I found the same discrepancies she did.

Claire’s chest tightened.

What did you do? I confronted Meredith.

She cried.

Said she’d been borrowing money to pay for her mother’s cancer treatment, that she’d pay it all back.

She begged me not to report her.

Said it would destroy her career.

It destroy the chapter’s reputation.

Vanessa’s voice cracked.

I was 21.

I believed her.

I kept quiet and graduated and tried to forget about it.

But you didn’t forget.

I checked the chapter’s financial statements every year.

Publicly available through the national organization.

The missing money kept growing.

I knew Meredith was still doing it.

I knew and I did nothing.

Why are you telling me this now? Vanessa reached into her bag and pulled out a small USB drive.

Because I saved everything, all my documentation from 2007, spreadsheets, screenshots, emails, I kept it in case I ever got brave enough to report her, but I never did.

And then the fire happened.

And I thought she stopped, tears streaming down her face.

I thought it was my fault.

If I’d reported her in 2007, maybe Lauren wouldn’t have had to investigate in 2015.

Maybe those girls would still be alive.

Clare took the USB drive.

This could help prove the pattern.

Show that Meredith’s been doing this for decades.

There’s more.

Vanessa wiped her eyes.

After the fire, I started investigating on my own.

Nothing illegal, just watching.

I tracked Meredith’s movements, her property purchases, her financial records, everything that’s public.

She bought a storage unit in 2015, 3 months after the fire.

Small facility on the edge of town, paid in cash.

She still has it.

Claire’s pulse quickened.

You think the dresses are there? I think whatever she couldn’t bring herself to destroy is there.

She visits it sometimes.

I’ve seen her always at night, always alone.

Did you tell the police this? I called Detective Hrix in 2016, told him about the storage unit, about my suspicions.

He thanked me for the information and said he’d look into it.

Then he called me back the next day and told me if I kept harassing his investigation with conspiracy theories, he’d charge me with obstruction.

Vanessa’s jaw tightened.

That’s when I knew Hrix was protecting her.

I didn’t know why, but I knew.

Claire stood pacing her small living room.

The storage unit.

Do you know which facility? You store on Maple Street.

Unit 247.

But Claire, you can’t just break in.

That’s illegal.

I know.

Everything I’ve done this week is illegal, but it’s the only way to find the truth.

Then let me help.

I owe those girls.

I owe Lauren.

Claire looked at her.

this woman who’d been carrying guilt for eight years, who’d been watching and documenting while everyone else moved on.

“Okay,” Clareire said.

“But we do this carefully.

No more walking into traps.

” They spent the next 3 hours planning.

Vanessa had photographs of the storage facility, layout diagrams, even the name of the overnight security guard, an older man who spent most of his shift watching TV in the office.

The locks are basic.

Vanessa said bolt cutters would work, but that’s obvious.

Better to pick it.

Do you know how to pick locks? I’ve been preparing for this conversation for 5 years.

I learned the USORE facility sat on the industrial edge of town, wedged between a closed textile mill and a truck stop.

Sodium lights cast everything in sick orange.

Clareire and Vanessa waited in the parking lot until midnight, watching the security guard through the office window.

He was exactly where Vanessa said he’d be, slumped in a rolling chair, TV flickering blue across his face.

Unit 247 is in the back row, Vanessa whispered.

No cameras in that section.

Budget facility, minimal security.

They got out of the car quietly, closing doors with soft clicks.

The air smelled like diesel and garbage.

Clare carried bolt cutters in a gym bag.

Backup plan if lockpicking failed.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

They walked along the perimeter fence, staying in shadows.

The storage units stretched out in neat rows, identical rollup doors painted green.

Numbers stencled in white, 2011, 233.

Unit 247 sat in the far corner exactly where Vanessa had said.

The lock was a standard padlock, nothing special.

Vanessa knelt in front of it, pulling lock pickicks from her pocket.

“How long does this take?” Clare asked.

“Depends.

Could be 30 seconds.

Could be 5 minutes.

” Vanessa inserted the tension wrench, then the pick.

Her hands were steady.

Practiced.

I spent 6 months learning this.

Watched hours of YouTube videos.

Bought practice locks.

My husband thought I was losing my mind.

ex-husband.

He couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t let it go.

Said dwelling on the past was unhealthy.

He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either.

The lock clicked.

Vanessa pulled it free.

Some things you can’t let go.

They lifted the rollup door slowly, cringing at the metallic scrape.

Inside was darkness and the smell of something chemical.

Cleaning supplies maybe, or preservatives.

Clare pulled out her phone flashlight.

The beam cut through the dark, landing on plastic storage bins stacked three high along the walls.

Garment bags hanging on a metal rack.

Boxes labeled in Meredith’s neat handwriting.

Personal financial records miscellaneous.

She’s been keeping everything, Vanessa whispered.

Evidence of her own crimes.

Clare moved to the garment bags first, her heart hammered against her ribs.

She unzipped the first one.

Pink fabric, delicate, the same shade she’d seen in the university archives.

She unzipped another.

Another pink dress.

Another.

Another another.

43 garment bags.

43 dresses.

Clare’s hand shook as she lifted one out.

The fabric was soft, expensive.

She turned it over, looking for something, anything that proved these had been worn that night.

There on the inside collar, a small monogram tag, the kind the sorority had made for the formal.

LH Lauren Hoffman.

Claire’s vision blurred.

She pressed the dress against her face and breathed in.

5 years old, but it still smelled faintly of Lauren’s perfume, that vanilla scent she’d worn since high school.

Claire.

Vanessa’s voice was tight.

Look at this.

She was kneeling by one of the plastic bins, lit off.

Inside were phones, dozens of them.

Old models from 2015, screens cracked or dark.

These are their phones, Vanessa said.

She kept their phones.

Clare set the dress down carefully and moved to the bin.

She picked one up at random, pressing the power button.

Dead battery.

She tried another.

Same.

There might be evidence on these,” Vanessa said.

“Messages, photos, proof of what happened that night.

” Clareire moved to the boxes labeled financial records.

She opened the top one.

Inside were folders meticulously organized by year.

Bank statements, transfer receipts, forged signatures on university documents, everything Meredith had done, documented and preserved.

“Why would she keep all this?” Clare asked.

“It’s evidence against herself.

insurance.

Vanessa said if Kensington or Hendrickx ever tried to turn on her, she’d have proof they were involved.

Mutually assured destruction.

Clare opened another box.

This one was different.

Personal items.

A diary with a worn leather cover.

Photographs.

She opened the diary and read the first page.

September 1997.

Another year begins.

Another group of girls who think they’re special, who think their lives matter more than they do.

They don’t know how easy it is to make people disappear.

How little anyone really cares once the headlines fade.

Claire’s blood went cold.

She flipped a head.

March 2003.

The Walsh girl figured it out.

Too smart for her own good, just like the others.

Had to be handled.

Made it look like she ran away.

Classic dropout story.

Everyone believed it.

They always do.

Vanessa, Clare said quietly.

This isn’t the first time.

Vanessa moved beside her, reading over her shoulder.

November 2008.

Close call with the treasurer.

She confronted me, but I cried and played the sick mother card.

Works every time.

These girls are so eager to believe in redemption.

She graduated and stayed quiet.

They always stay quiet.

That was Vanessa.

Clare looked at her, saw recognition and horror dawning on her face.

April 2015.

The Hoffman girl and her friend won’t stay quiet.

They’ve made copies.

They’re going to the dean.

Don’t they know Kensington is mine? That I own him? That he’s been covering for me since 2010 when I found out about his affair with a student? They think they’re heroes.

They’re about to become victims.

The entry continued detailing the plan.

The charter bus that was never meant to go to Riverside Manor.

The warehouse on Route 6.

The carbon monoxide.

How quickly it would be over.

They’ll sleep first.

Won’t even know what’s happening.

It’s merciful.

Really, more than they deserve for threatening everything I’ve built.

Clare felt sick.

Vanessa had turned away.

Hand over her mouth.

She’s a serial killer.

Clare whispered.

the Walsh girl in 2003.

How many others? She flipped through the diary faster.

More names, more years, girls who’d dropped out or transferred or run away from home.

Jennifer Walsh in 1999, Katie Morrison in 2001, Amanda Foster in 2006.

In 2008, she’d nearly killed Vanessa, but Vanessa had stayed quiet.

Sarah Vance in 2012.

And then 2015, 43 at once.

“Jesus Christ,” Vanessa breathed.

“She’s been killing for decades.

” Clare pulled out her phone.

“We call Detective Mills right now.

We don’t touch anything else.

We don’t move anything.

We get the police here immediately.

” But Vanessa wasn’t looking at the diary anymore.

She was staring at the storage unit door.

It was closing.

They both spun as the door rolled down with a metallic screech.

Clare lunged for it, but it slammed shut before she could reach it.

Darkness swallowed them, except for their phone flashlights.

No, no, no, no.

Clare hit the door, pushed against it, solid, locked from the outside.

Vanessa was already calling 911.

We’re trapped in a storage unit at store on Maple, unit 247.

We need The call dropped.

She looked at her phone.

No signal.

These units are metal.

It’s blocking everything.

Clare tried her own phone.

Same result.

One bar flickering in and out.

Not enough to make a call.

The security guard, she said.

He’ll do rounds eventually, right? Maybe.

Or maybe not until morning.

Vanessa’s voice was shaking.

Or maybe whoever locked us in is coming back.

They heard footsteps outside.

Slow, deliberate.

Hello, girls.

Meredith Thorne’s voice muffled through the metal door.

I got a call from my security system.

Someone broke into my storage unit.

Imagine my surprise when I checked the camera feed and saw Clare Hoffman and Vanessa Wright picking my lock.

We found everything.

Clare shouted.

The dresses, the phones, the diary.

The police are coming.

The police? Meredith laughed.

Did you call them before or after you broke into private property again? How many times do you think you can commit crimes in pursuit of your little truth quest before they stop taking you seriously? Vanessa moved closer to Clare.

Both of them backing toward the center of the unit.

You murdered 50 women over two decades.

Vanessa said, “That diary documents everything.

” “Does it?” Because I think that diary documents the paranoid fantasies of two women with a documented history of harassment and illegal activity.

Breaking into university property, breaking into my storage unit, making wild accusations.

Detective Hrix warned you both to stop, but you wouldn’t listen.

Hris is in custody, Clare said.

Silence, then.

Is he? That’s unfortunate, but I’m sure his lawyer will have him out soon.

Good lawyers can work miracles.

Mine certainly has over the years.

More footsteps.

Multiple people.

Now I brought help.

Meredith said we’re going to clean out this unit.

Get rid of all these old things I should have thrown away years ago.

And unfortunately, we’re going to find two bodies inside.

Tragic accident.

Carbon monoxide leak from a faulty heater I didn’t know was in here.

You broke in, got trapped, couldn’t call for help.

By the time anyone finds you, it’ll be too late.

No.

Clare slammed on the door.

“Help! Somebody help us!” “Scream all you want,” Meredith said.

“The overnight guard is on his break.

” “And these units are quite soundproof.

Believe me, I’ve tested that before.

” The footsteps moved away.

Clare and Vanessa stood in darkness, trapped with 43 dresses and evidence of two decades of murder, waiting for carbon monoxide to seep under the door.

Claire’s phone flashlight beam cut through the darkness, landing on vents near the ceiling.

Small metal grates.

That’s where the carbon monoxide would come from.

“We need to block those,” she said, already moving.

“Shirts, fabric, anything.

” Vanessa grabbed one of the pink dresses from the garment bags.

“No, we’re not using these.

They’re evidence.

We’re dead if we don’t.

” Clare yanked three dresses down, wading them into tight bundles.

She climbed onto a storage bin and shoved fabric into the first vent, packing it as tight as she could.

Vanessa did the same with the second vent, but there were four vents total.

And they could already smell it.

That faint, almost sweet odor that meant the gas was coming.

“How long do we have?” Vanessa asked.

“I don’t know, minutes, an hour.

” Claire’s hands were shaking as she blocked the third vent.

Depends on concentration, air flow, how much oxygen is in here already.

They blocked the fourth vent with Lauren’s dress.

Claire’s fingers brushed the monogram tag as she shoved it into place.

I’m sorry, she thought.

I’m so sorry.

My phone has one bar, Vanessa said, holding it up.

Sometimes it keeps flickering.

Try texting Mills.

Tell her where we are.

Vanessa typed frantically, hitting send over and over.

Not going through.

Not going through.

Clare jumped down from the bin and grabbed Meredith’s diary, flipping to the first page where she’d written about Jennifer Walsh in 1999.

We document everything right now.

We take photos of every page, every piece of evidence.

If we die in here, at least there’s a record.

They worked in frantic silence, photographing diary entries, dresses with monogram tags, the bins of phones.

Clare took pictures of financial documents, bank statements showing transfers dating back to 1997.

Vanessa filmed video, narrating what they’d found.

“This is evidence of multiple murders spanning 25 years,” Vanessa said into her phone camera, voice shaking.

Meredith Thorne, housemother of Delta Sigma sorority, has been killing women since at least 1999.

We found documentation of at least 50 victims.

She’s outside the storage unit right now pumping carbon monoxide in to kill us.

If you’re watching this, we’re at store on Maple Street, unit 247.

Get help.

She tried sending the video.

One bar loading.

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