Medea is alive. The mythological child-killer lives in modern New York City as an artist and cultural icon. Her past is undeniable to millions of devoted followers. They see a monster. They worship her anyway.

Claire Mitchell is a struggling journalist who wants to know why. Pursuing Medea's inner circle, she hopes to find the answer for an article that will rejuvenate her voice and save her career. Instead, she uncovers a secret buried so deeply that it threatens to destroy what Medea has built for centuries.

But Claire refuses to see what is visible to everyone around her. When she finally confronts Medea, the truth Claire demands from her may be less devastating than the truth Claire has been hiding from herself.

Claire took a long drink as she kept replaying the morning’s conversation with Beverly. She should have known it was an impossible request. Everything Beverly said was true. Medea was too big. Part celebrity, part influencer, part something darker. Immortal. She stirred unease and fascination. Her fashion. Her music. Her art. The photos from galas and exclusive parties where the world’s elite treated her like a deity. In the midst of this idolatry, Medea released occasional “To Those Who” videos—part monologue, part performance art—that hurled nothing but contempt for the multitudes who worshipped her. Why so much hate? Claire asked herself. She took another drink of wine and waited for an answer.

Then Medea was looking at her from the television. A promotional head shot, one of a dozen used by her PR team, hovered behind a handsome male news anchor wearing a crisp blue suit. The chyron underneath read Medea Unveils Vanta. The anchor was replaced by a montage of stock footage. Medea at red carpet events, posing glamorously in a flowing black dress. Medea on stage, singing seductively behind lavish make-up. Medea directing models at photoshoots for her fashion line. Medea getting out of limousines, getting into limousines. In every scene, cameras flashed incessantly. Medea’s eyes gleamed. Claire scrambled for her remote and turned up the volume.

“After already shaping music, art, fashion, and performance, the immortal Medea is set to unveil her latest offering. Her new monthly magazine, Vanta, which is slated for release early next year, will provide a unique look at culture and style through avant-garde photography and feature stories from both emerging and established voices. Combined with Medea’s singular perspective, Vanta promises a rare glimpse into the complexities that drive Medea’s innovation and influence. While insiders have been tight-lipped about the industry icons who have been approached for Vanta’s staff, the announcement alone has sent the creative community buzzing, reaffirming Medea’s place at the center of contemporary society.”

The montage ended and cut to a long shot, both anchors sitting apart from each other with Medea’s image between them.

“Is there nothing this woman cannot do,” the man said with a slight shake of his head. To his right was a blonde woman in a simple red dress that covered her shoulders. She smiled and looked at her counterpart at the other end of the desk. “I hope it won’t be one of those magazines that are mostly advertisements.”

The story changed to a piece about children visiting a pet shelter. Claire turned down the volume and took another drink. Immortality should have been your punishment, she thought, the wine warming her from the inside. Living forever with what you did—seeing children everywhere and remembering yours. But that’s not what happened. Instead, you found ways to endear us to you. How? When did that narrative shift? Before they became irrelevant, the gods should have crushed you. That was their mistake.

That morning’s argument with Beverly began to burn within her, resurrected from its embers. The Luddington angle would not challenge the readers—just a comparison to another heinous crime from decades ago. But Medea was immortal, active, shaping culture right now. Claire meant what she had said: the best stories make people face the things they want to avoid. What are people avoiding when they look at Medea? Why aren’t they disgusted by her? By what she did to her own sons? By her derision toward her fans? What does it say about them? That is what Claire wanted to find out. That was going to drive her story. Luddington offered none of that, neither did Bowers. This story was going to be so much more than the two of them. And Beverly killed it.

Claire finished the last of the wine in her glass and set it down. She frowned at the prospect of Justine’s pedantic idea, but she also knew she was one article away from being fired. Working with Justine was the easiest solution to save herself, but not the best. She would not get to answer the questions. The Medea story would do that. It would allow her to prove her worth to the magazine. To herself. She picked up her empty wine glass and took it into the kitchen. A new bottle sat on the counter, and after some struggle with the brittle cork, Claire managed to refill her glass.

Medea must be a part of this story, she told herself. Maybe there was a way to work her into Justine’s lame idea. Even if it didn’t neatly mesh. Yes, Justine could have the surface details—summaries of Medea’s public statements, commentary about her cultural influence, the obvious contrasts with Bowers. Background material. Context. Exactly what Beverly said I could do. That should keep her and Beverly happy. Save my job. But the real story—the people who worship a child-killer and what that says about them—that would belong to me. No one else.

Beverly’s warning resurfaced—do not go anywhere near Medea or her people. Claire turned around and leaned against the counter, the edge hard against her lower back. Her eyes stared down at the floor, at the porcelain tile and small pieces of cork at her feet. She did not see any of it. An idea was forming, fighting through the wine and desperation. Claire watched it approach and retreat, then approach again. When it came close enough, she reached out to grab it before it could disappear. She cradled it in her hand, a small epiphany.

There were people outside Medea’s orbit—academics, followers, fans. And of course, there were other journalists, too. Many others have tried over the years—Beverly said as much—some must have gotten further than she thinks you ever will. What if you started there? Their insights could be useful. Together with other research, they could give you what you need. And, of course, other opportunities might come along—opportunities to reach a little deeper into Medea’s circle. She smiled to herself, basking in her own cleverness. But that will be just for you. What Justine and Beverly don’t know can’t hurt them.

Claire took a final, celebratory sip and placed the glass on the counter, then shuffled to the couch and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. She rested her head on the cushion. The wine made her eyes feel heavy. That night she dreamed about Medea sitting across from her at a great table lit with a dozen flaming candelabras. The air was hazy with smoke. Medea was speaking earnestly, but Claire could not hear the words.