CHICAGO

August 1979

ANGELA MITCHELL STARED AT THE TELEVISION. SHE STOOD WITH HER friend Catherine Blackwell and watched the news report. On the screen, a reporter stood in front of a darkened alley as the sun set on the summer night. Trashcans rested against chain-link fences, and weeds pushed through the cracks of the uneven pavement.

“Another woman,” the reporter said, “has been confirmed missing. Samantha Rodgers, a twenty-two-year-old from Lincoln Park, was reported missing on Tuesday after she failed to show up for work. Authorities believe she is the fifth victim in a string of unexplained disappearances that started in the first week of May.”

The reporter walked along the boulevard. A few pedestrians passed behind her and stared into the camera with stupid grins, unaware of the tragedy being reported.

“The disappearances started May second with the abduction of Clarissa Manning. Since then, three other women have gone missing from the streets of Chicago. None have been found, and it is suspected that their disappearances are all related. Now, Samantha Rodgers is feared to be the latest victim of a predator the authorities are calling The Thief. The Chicago Police Department continues to warn young women not to walk the streets alone. The authorities are asking for any leads in the whereabouts of the missing women, and have set up a tip line.”

“Five women in three months,” Catherine said. “How have the police not been able to find this guy?”

“They have to know something,” Angela said in a quiet and reserved voice. “They’re probably keeping the details away from the public so as not to tip this guy off to what they know.”

Angela’s husband walked into the room and clicked off the television. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Come on. Dinner’s ready.”

“It’s just terrible,” Angela said.

Angela’s husband ran his hand over her shoulder and pulled her close for a quick hug. He cocked his head toward the kitchen, making eye contact with Catherine as he left the room.

Angela continued to stare at the blank television screen. The reporter’s profile was burned into her mind, an afterimage that allowed Angela to recall every detail of the woman’s face, the alley, the green street signs in the background, and even the dumb looks on the faces of the passersby who had walked through the frame. It was a gift and a curse to remember everything she saw. She finally blinked the reporter’s image away, allowing it to fade from her visual cortex just as Catherine tugged lightly at Angela’s elbow, pulling her toward the dinner table.