Free Cold Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 3) by Alexandra Sokoloff

she meant the very publicized Internet outing of several members of an Ohio high school football team after the rape of a drunk and unconscious teenage girl. Members of the team had tweeted and posted photos of the prolonged molestation, which had brought the outrage of a splinter group of Anonymous down on the perpetrators and the whole town.
    Singh continued. “Some people in some factions thought that the emphasis on pursuing sex offenders was too moral. They derided the crusading element as ‘moralfags.’Other members of the collective felt they wanted to focus much more on cyberactivism in the vein of the Steubenville outings. While that debate was raging, a completely separate group surfaced, focusing on unequivocally feminist issues: rape, domestic violence, sexual harassment, discrimination.” She glanced again at the computer screen. “SoBitch has not been around long, but it seems to have found a causecélèbre in Cara Lindstrom. The Internet is burning up with posts and memes.”
    She pushed her hair out of her face with a slender hand and looked across at Roarke.
    “I have no doubt that Molina will not hesitate to use this group in whatever ways she can devise. It may well get ugly for us.”
    Roarke knew she was right. They sat in silence for a moment. Then Singh spoke again.
    “I am not surprised they are making Lindstrom into a political cause. It is really quite radical, what she is doing.”
    “It’s not political,” Roarke answered automatically, before he realized how much he was giving away.
    Singh looked at him quizzically. “Every act is political.”
    He answered back without thinking. “And is every act divine?”
    “Of course,” Singh said, without the slightest irony. And as they sat in the dim light of the computer screen, Roarke realized he didn’t really know his agent at all.
    Alone in his office, he sat behind his desk and considered seeing Molina, to try to suss out where she was going with this involvement with Bitch . Then he thought of calling Mills, to see if the detective had made progress on tracking Jade’s real identity through the school system.
    He did neither.
    Instead he walked out through the office, stopping to give Singh a story about going in search of breakfast. She nodded without blinking and declined his offer to bring something back for her. He had little illusion that he was fooling her. What scared him was how little he cared.
    Downstairs in the garage, he collected his fleet car and drove to the Hall of Justice.
    The lobby was salmon-pink marble, lit by three huge and vaguely ominous Art Deco globes and still bustling in the week before the holiday. Roarke quickly scanned the space for anyone he might know, then turned toward the crossover to County #8. Even just entering the connecting hall, he felt his heart start to beat faster, a guilty, exhilarating hammering. His anticipation was so great he almost ran into a young woman as she stepped out of the elevator: slim, black-haired, olive-complected, and very, very distraught. And familiar, though for a moment her emotional state was so overwhelming he couldn’t place her.
    He reached automatically for her arms to steady her, and she flinched away from him. “Sorry—” he began, and then it hit him. “Erin,” he said, looking into her face.
    Cara’s cousin, Erin McNally.
    When Roarke had been hunting Cara, he’d gone to interview Erin at her medical school in San Diego. That had been just weeks ago, but the young woman who stood trembling before him bore only the slightest resemblance to the cool and direct med student he remembered. She was gaunt, shivering, a wreck.
    Drugs? he wondered. Whatever it was, it was something.
    When she didn’t answer, he repeated, “Erin.” He saw a hint of clarity in her eyes at the sound of her name, and in that moment of focus he could see a flicker of recognition of him as well.
    “I’m Special Agent Roarke. We talked last month . . .”
    Too late he realized