Somewhere in a drive in his locked study, I had been a project with a start date and a projected close, and the projected close had a number beside it, and the number was my house.

I had walked into that sheriff’s station believing I was escaping a bad marriage.

What my eleven-year-old son had actually uncovered was a pattern — a method, repeated, refined, and recorded — and a mother and son who had turned the murder of trusting women into something they ran like a business.

Chapter 12 — Blanca

Before her formal indictment, Blanca asked to speak with me.

I don’t fully know why I went.