She’d already thought of that possibility herself, and had pursued that area of inquiry before.

“I assume this wouldn’t apply to you.”

“No. Then again, our affair was brief. I was on birth control, and I insisted he use a condom. He didn’t want to, complained and resisted, but that was a deal breaker for me. Maybe my impression’s colored some, but it struck me he had nothing but contempt for his wife, and considered his children a burden. And that leads me to a second, somewhat vague memory.”

“Go ahead.”

“I honestly didn’t recognize any names on the list you showed me, but college was a long time ago. But this memory made me think of this girl in the Shakespeare Club—Jon ran that. I stayed in it because, whatever else he was, Jon was an exceptional teacher, and his insights on Shakespeare were brilliant. I couldn’t remember her name even when I thought of her. I do know she was new—a freshman—and I think I was a junior or senior at that point.”

“You think she and Jon had an affair.”

“Jon had a type, I think. He liked them young, bright, attractive, and with good bodies. She had all that. On the shy side, but she bloomed in that club. And since I’d once had a fling with him, I recognized the signs.”

“What about her stands out to you now?”

“She stopped coming abruptly and, as I said, she bloomed there. I figured the affair had gone south, and she was heartbroken or embarrassed. I said something to a friend who happened to live in the same dorm. Catty, I admit. That’s when I heard the story.

“The girl—and I refreshed with my old college friend who remembered her first name. Jessica. Jessica came home to the dorm one night, beaten up. Now this is thirdhand, as while in the same dorm, my friend wasn’t even on the same floor. But she heard Jessica staggered into the dorm with bruises all over her face, an eye swollen shut, and more, with her pants soaked with blood. A miscarriage.”

Rachael circled the name Jessica on the notes she took, underlined miscarriage. “Police report? Medical records?”

“The word was she claimed she’d been mugged, couldn’t identify the attacker. Wouldn’t, anyway. She refused to let her dorm mates call an ambulance or the police, which of course they should’ve done anyway. She dropped out, according to my friend.”

“I’d like your friend’s name and contact information.”

“I asked, and she’d rather I didn’t give that out—unless it becomes clearly relevant.”

“It’s part of the whole, Ms. Potter.”

“I agree, but a source is a source. I’ll press her on it, but for now, I can’t give you that information. And I can’t tell you where this Jessica lived back then or even her last name. However, I want to say I’m sure, but in fact can only say I’m about seventy percent sure, that this was the same time Jon came into class with his right hand bandaged. He made a joke about English professors never attempting home repairs. We all laughed, and that was that.”

“This is very helpful.”

“Is there a Jessica on the list?”

“Two, in fact. A fairly common name. Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Ah … A brunette, and my image is of young, fresh, pretty. Slim but curvy. But that’s it. I wouldn’t recognize her if I saw her, I’m sorry. We interacted in the club, but that was once a week for a few months.”

“Do you remember when this happened?”

“I’m nearly sure it was in my junior year, and after the winter break. I know it was cold, and I’d moved into a group house off campus. Wait, yes, now that I’m pinning it, I’m positive it was early January. The first or possibly the second club meeting after the winter break. I think the first.”

Nodding to herself, Rachael wrote down the probable year, circled that. “Okay.”

“I’d like to know if and when you locate her. I could’ve warned her, but I didn’t. She may not have listened, but I could’ve told her what he was.

“I have to get into makeup. I have some promos to do before News at Five.”

“If you remember anything else, I’d like to hear it. Thanks for passing on this information.”

Rachael sat back, considered.

She’d managed to track down both Jessicas on the list. One, who predated Lina with her relationship with Bennett, lived in London. Born and raised in England, and Tracie would certainly have remembered an accent. Plus, an earlier liaison.

But the second Jessica hit the right age. She’d vehemently denied having any sexual relationship with Bennett, which even in the brief phone conversation came off as an angry lie.

Rachael pulled up her notes. Yes, Jessica Kingsley, née Peters, married to Robert Kingsley—pastor of the Church of the Savior—for twenty-four years, mother of four, who lived in her hometown of Eldora, Iowa.

First time away from home, Rachael mused, shy and excited. Falls for charming professor. Goes home for winter break and finds out she’s pregnant. Tells Bennett, who reacts as he did with Lina Rizzo, but this one can’t defend herself. Shamed and shocked, she manages to get back to her dorm as she miscarries. Makes up a story, goes home.

Probably blames herself, hides the incident, buries it.

Does she tell her future husband before the wedding, or tell him ever? Unlikely. She’d fear she wouldn’t be forgiven. Instead, she made her life in her little town and kept it buried.

“I could’ve warned her,” Tracie’d said. And though Rachael had, or had tried, she knew she had to try again.

She got a bottle of water from her mini-fridge, walked around her office chugging it as she considered her approach.

If she didn’t try, and something happened to Jessica Kingsley, she’d have to live with it. She didn’t want to live with it.

She closed her office door—a signal not to disturb—then sat and pulled the phone number from her file.

The woman answered, obviously distracted. “Hang on a minute. I’m getting a pie out of the oven.”

Rachael heard rattling, humming, footsteps.

“Sorry. Hello.”

“Ms. Kingsley, this is Rachael McNee. We spoke a few weeks ago.”

“I told you this doesn’t involve me, and not to call me again.”

“Please don’t hang up. You don’t have to say anything. I’m just asking you to listen for a minute. Whatever happened or didn’t at Georgetown, your name is on a list. What I didn’t know when we spoke before, but have confirmed now, is five women on that same list are dead. Were murdered. I need you to be aware of that, aware there may be more I haven’t yet found. The police and the FBI are investigating, and you may be contacted. I couldn’t, in good conscience, withhold this information from you, and am only advising you to take precautions.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why would I lie?”

“For all I know you’re some reporter, trying to spread fake news like all the rest of them.”

Rachael just closed her eyes. “You can google my name, the name of my agency. I simply want you to be aware someone is killing women who went to Georgetown University, whose names are on a list. As yours is.”