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57. Nat

The screen blurs and I rub my eyes ineffectually. I've finished the article on the most popular dog breeds for families, which will be published in the weekend magazine supplement, and have reverted to my article on the mayor.

The outline is done and mostly I'm filling in the blanks. The shelters he's put in place for vulnerable women and children warrant a closer look. Everything I've learned so far about the guy tells me he didn't set up the scheme out of the kindness of his heart.

Mickey pulled up the financials for me - I didn't ask how he came up with information that wasn't in the public domain - and everything looks legit. Money comes in via grants from the government and also donations from the private sector.

I'm no expert on how non-profits are funded but nothing seems out of the ordinary. The shelters aren't making a profit. Mostly they barely cover their costs, but given how many people they are helping, it's not unexpected. The city has a drug problem and a lot of women come into the shelters with addiction issues.

From what I can tell, many are then moved into rehab programs outside of the city. It's where they go from there that isn't clear. I'm missing something.

I've spent all morning digging but I can't make sense of the information. There's nothing about what happens to these women once they move on from the shelters and rehab clinics. Beyond a couple of interviews with people who have gone into the shelter network and been rehoused with a job, there isn't much information.

I get that many of these women are running from something - or someone - which is why they are vulnerable, but surely there would be more information in the public domain about this?

It feels like smoke and mirrors.

The fact he's linked to the pay-per-view website on the Dark Web, where women are abused for the pleasure of people rich enough to pay a hefty subscription fee, worries me. Marie, Kolanski's maid, the one who disappeared after talking to me, made it more than clear he isn't a good man.

If he's involved in the PlayPen website, which Mickey says he is, then chances are high that the shelter program is a funnel for the website. Maybe the women sent on to rehab centers don't end up in rehab at all.

Maybe they are trafficked into sexual slavery.

The cup of coffee I poured from the machine in the staff kitchen sits congealing on my desk. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the shelters are just a front.

My phone vibrates in my bag but I ignore it. I'm too fired up to talk to anyone right now.

It's probably Max anyway. Who I definitely don't want to talk to. My head is a confused mess where he's concerned. I still have no idea why he let himself into my apartment last night, or where he'd been.

The fact that we ended up having sex … again … isn't something I feel like thinking about either.

So I ignore my phone and ping James on the office intranet.

Me: I'm working on a story and I need a photographer, want to come? Not official, btw.

James: Sure, let me know when and I'll see if I have a slot in my diary.

Me: Thanks x

The next step is to contact one of the shelters to make an appointment. Hopefully, with me being a woman, they will be more amenable to giving me access to some of the residents. Even if nothing seems amiss, I'm sure I can sell the idea of a story about Kolanski's charity to the editor. As far as I know, very little has been written about the scheme since its inception.

Now would be a good time for a human interest piece on whether it's been successful.

I make a call and Grace, the woman running a shelter in one of the outer boroughs, seems nice enough.

"You understand that it's up to the residents if they are willing to talk, yes?" she says.

"Of course, I don't want to endanger anyone."

"OK, fine. How about tomorrow, around 4 pm? We serve food at 6 PM, so there will be plenty of people around to talk to at that time of the day."

"Sounds perfect. I'll be there. I'm bringing a photographer but we won't publish any photos without a signed release."

I finish up and reach out to James again. He's free so we agree on a time to meet. Then I look to see who's been blowing up my phone. To my surprise, it's Amanda, not Max.

Amanda: Hey, drinks tomorrow tonight? Need some advice.

Me: Sure, usual place?

Jane: Can't! Got a dinner date!

Me: Same guy?

Jane: Yeah. He's taking me to some fancy place out of town. New dress needed ASAP.

Amanda: No worries, enjoy.

Amanda: @Nat meet you at 7 PM.

Me: I might be late, make it 8.

Amanda sends me a thumbs up and I shove my phone back in the drawer. Kinda surprised she wants to talk. It's not like her to need advice. She's usually got her shit together pretty well, with the possible exception of dating disasters, which are a regular occurrence. So this must be man-related.

I sigh. Hopefully, she hasn't hooked up with the douchey lifeguard again.

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