But that’s precisely what I did. And he did nothing in return, except lick his lips at me like he plans to feast on me. Oh no, what if I have a second-coming of Jeffrey Dahmer stalking me? Heart back in my throat, I turn and rush back inside, feeling like Lucifer’s hounds are nipping at my asscheeks. And when I shut and lock the door behind me, I look back to the rocking chair I was sitting in and see the knife lying haphazardly on the floor, next to the footstool. Oh my God. I confront a psycho and I drop the knife on the ground instead of bringing it with me. God, why did you make me the way that I am? Next lifetime, can you not do such a shitty job? As a reward for finishing my manuscript and sending it off to my editor, I’m treating myself to a nice murder investigation. Daya sent over more notes that she found from the PD’s database. Emails pour in by the minute with more details. Most of it is handwritten reports by men with atrocious penmanship. And with the mishandling of the crime scene, we essentially have nothing to go on. My great-grandfather mentioned in a report that she was acting strangely for several months leading up to her death.