"For the last six months, I've heard from her three times a week. Twice on the phone, and every Wednesday I would get a letter with some cash in it. Like clockwork, every single week." One last time, she turned to glance at the door. When she looked back, her voice had fallen to no more than a whisper. "Right up until three weeks ago, when everything suddenly went radio silent." Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, Father Michael Kane covers the confession booth at the church just off the south end of the famed Las Vegas Strip. Most of the time, the hours pass uneventfully, filled with tourists feigning remorse about whatever debauchery the previous night entailed, hoping to cleanse their conscience in preparation for another round in the night ahead. On rare occasion, someone different arrives-drawn by word of mouth, made aware of the true nature both of those specific hours and the man entrusted with overseeing them. The latest in a long line of successors dating back to the earliest days of city itself, there to help when nobody else can. Often, by any means necessary. The story Linda Perlin shares is a new take on a tale reserved for places like New York or Los Angeles. Eight months prior, her daughter arrived in Vegas with hopes of becoming a stage performer at one of the major casinos along the Strip. A youthful dream that was on the verge of becoming reality when all word from her suddenly ceased. Complete radio silence that the police can't explain, forcing Linda to seek aid in the last place she can think of. A plea for help that Michael agrees to take on, soon plunging him into a chase across parts of the city that most people never see. The ugly underbelly of The City of Sin, often playing out in the shadows created by the bright lights just a few blocks away...
