The county coroner, who had built a career burying secrets, broke under FBI questioning before his coffee was cold. Sheriff Landry was stripped of his badge and arrested in the gravel lot of his own precinct, surrounded by junior deputies who had spent decades staring at their shoes.

You could feel the shadow lifting off the valley. Townspeople crept onto their porches, pulling robes tight against the chill, watching in stunned silence as the monsters who’d terrorized them for a generation were led away in cages.

Charles and Evelyn were arrested together, standing in the ruins of their formal dining room. Evelyn was still wearing the emerald silk robe she’d probably worn when she called to mock my daughter’s suffering.

Even with her hands zip-tied, she tried to summon the venom.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” she spat at the lead FBI agent. “We own this mountain.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He reached into his vest, set a small digital recorder on her antique dining table, and pressed play.