James Patterson, one of the world's most successful authors whose novels regularly top the best-seller charts, happens to live half a mile from Jeffrey Epstein's home in Palm Beach, Florida. Over the years he had become fascinated and appalled in equal measure by Epstein and determined to investigate just how and why so many young women found their way to his home on a secluded street. This is the deeply disturbing story of what he discovered . . . 

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Late one afternoon, while taking a leisurely stroll on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a friend of mine named Tim Malloy ran into a trim, silver-haired neighbour of ours from Palm Beach in Florida.

The man was walking down Madison Avenue, and several things about him were striking. For one thing, he was wearing slippers. Expensive, embroidered, monogrammed slippers. But slippers all the same.

For another, he was accompanied by two exceptionally attractive women. As the man half shuffled, half walked down the avenue, the women walked slightly behind him, as if they were attendants or staff.