THE YEARS OF PAIN
The list came from Webb’s testimony.
Maya obtained a copy through her source — not legally, but she didn’t care. She needed to see.
The names filled twelve pages.
Sarah Chen. Elena Vasquez. Clara Bennett. Kaela Morgan. Sophie Chen.
And before them, others. Women who had died in Boston. Women who had died in other cities. Women who had jumped from other bridges.
Some of the names weren’t dead. They were just missing. Women who had run away from their lives, their families, their homes. Women who had never been found.
Maya called Rachel.
“Did Clara ever mention Boston? Or moving here from somewhere else?”
“She grew up in Boston. Moved here for a fresh start. After a bad breakup.”
“When was that?”
“A few years before she died. Her doctor in Boston referred her to someone down here. A specialist.”
“Webb?”
“I think so. She never said his name.”
Maya’s hands shook.
The pattern wasn’t just Vance.
It was Webb. And before Webb, others. A network of doctors and therapists and counselors who referred vulnerable women to a man who pushed them toward death.
She called her source back.
“I need Webb’s patient list. Everyone he referred to Vance. Going back to the beginning.”
“Maya, that’s—”
“I know what it is. I need it anyway.”
A pause.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
THE LIST
The list arrived at 2:00 AM.
Maya opened the file.
Hundreds of names. Women who had been referred to Vance over twenty years. Some were marked “DECEASED.” Some were marked “MISSING.” Some were marked “ACTIVE.”
Maya recognized some of the names from the news. Women who had died in ways that looked like suicide. Women who had disappeared without a trace. Women who had been forgotten.
She called Danny.
Danny came to the living room, rubbing her eyes.
“What is it?”
Maya showed her the list.
“This is everyone he’s hurt. Everyone he’s killed. Everyone he’s still hunting.”
Danny stared at the screen.
“There must be a hundred names.”
“A hundred and forty-seven. That I can find. There are probably more.”
“What are you going to do?”
Maya closed the laptop.
“I’m going to publish it.”
“All of it?”
“All of it. Their names. Their stories. Their deaths. The doctors who referred them. The police who looked the other way. Everyone.”
“They’ll come after you.”
“Let them.”
Maya opened the laptop.
She wrote until dawn.