But then again, for all those who could connect with an average—or slightly below average—childhood, there was the large swath of America who was fascinated by wealth. They would obsess over the fact that Sophie had an opening in her wall that would suck dirty clothes through it and deliver it to our laundry room. They would catalog the items in her room and their value, and know that her bedroom set cost over $10,000 and the sneakers she was wearing were Golden Goose and that those were real diamond studs in her ears.

  This would be the rich-girl version of the Folcrum Party, and I was torn over whether to play up those attributes or mute them. I had to maintain a strong enough tie to the original crime or else it would lose its pizzazz.

  I also had to be very careful of the details, with an eye on avoiding implicating myself. If I sent out seventeen invitations or dressed Sophie in a polka-dotted cotton jumper with a red bow in her hair, the suspicion would immediately swing my way. I had to make sure to separate myself enough from the planning to keep my hands clean while also making sure that everything was done perfectly.

  I found Paige in the library, lazily flipping through a magazine while Sophie did her homework at the table. I hovered in the doorway and waved, catching the nanny’s attention. After gesturing for her to follow me, I walked halfway down the hall and waited for her to catch up.

  Her steps were quick, and today she was wearing a long-sleeved Gwen Stefani shirt with jeans and sneakers. She had a green headband holding back her straight, dark hair and wore red glasses. A cute look, though I would have preferred a more professional one. I pushed the thought away before it came out. “Paige, I need your help with something.”

  “Sure, anything.” Her quick response was happy, and I smiled at the eagerness on her face.

  “It’s Sophie’s upcoming twelfth-birthday party. I’d like you to handle the planning of it.”

  “Oh, cool. I’d love to. Do you have any ideas, or should I just—”

  “I have some ideas, but I’d really like this to be your project.” A project I would manipulate in every possible way. “Can you come in an hour early tomorrow and we can go over the details?”

  “Absolutely.” She tilted her head. “Is this a secret, or does Sophie know about it?”

  “She knows about it. Grant wants to keep it small—he said just two friends. She’s already invited two of the girls in the neighborhood for a sleepover. So it won’t be a big affair; I just don’t have time to handle the cake, decorations, stuff like that.”

  She nodded again. “I think . . .” She glanced over her shoulder and toward the library. “I think it’s going okay between us. I mean, no more things, like with the car.”

  The car had ended up being a thousand-dollar repair. We had replaced the fuel filter, all the fuel lines, and then had the tank drained and replaced.

  “I told you, you just need to give her some space. And if anything does happen, come to me first. Don’t try to deal with Sophie.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  She looked unsure, and I mentally patted myself on the back for how things were going so far. It was the orchestration of a train wreck—one that, even if derailed, would put the attention of the police everywhere except on me.

  CHAPTER 51

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  Hi, my forever,

  I can’t stop thinking of you, stuck in that place. It seems so cold and horrible from the photos I can find online. I wish I was there to fix you a warm meal and hold you in my arms.

  I’ve been researching the party lately, and I wish you would have just told them what happened. I know you didn’t do it, but it seems that the police just didn’t have enough to go on to find the real killer. Please think hard about if there’s any other details you can remember about the intruder. Even something small. I have connections, Leewood. I could help get you out, and then we could be together.

  I believe in your innocence. I love you. You and I, we are connected in ways that others will never understand. You feel it, don’t you?

  I’m sorry that I haven’t written in a while. Things have been very busy here, and I haven’t been able to sneak out a letter, but it has nothing to do with how much I think of you and want to see you.

  I haven’t given up the thought of visiting you. I have so many complicated feelings about seeing you in there—and having you see me. But maybe soon. I really have been thinking about it a lot.

  Always yours,

  Darcy

  PS: Please send me a photo. I’m enclosing a camera and some film. I just want to see what you look like now. All of the video clips online are so old. xoxoxo

  The camera was a blue plastic thing, with a thin five-pack of blank photos. I turned them over in my hand, surprised people were still using Polaroids.

  “Folcrum.” Redd stood in the doorway. “Doc wants to see you.”

  “On a Sunday?” I stood, my back creaking in protest. I leaned back, trying to pop it, then bent over, reaching for my shoes.

  “Don’t know what to tell you.” He glanced at my desk. “How’s the fan mail?”

  “Same old shit. Half loonies, half whores.”

  “No loony whores?”

  I smiled as I pulled the back of the sneaker over my heel. “Good point.” My chest suddenly seized and I gripped it, inhaling deeply as I tried to get some air in.

  “You okay?” Redd stayed outside the cell, but I heard the sound of his radio unclipping.

  I held up my hand, stopping any action. “I’m fine,” I said tightly, sucking in shallow breaths as I gripped the railing of the bed. My chest finally relaxed, and I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes. “I’m good,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing, you going to the doc right now.” He reattached his radio to his shirt.

  “Or maybe the thought of seeing him is what choked me up.” On the way to the door, I stopped, taking a moment to cover the next letter in the stack. I didn’t expect anyone to step into my cell while I was gone, but you could never be too careful.

  CHAPTER 52

  JOURNAL OF SOPHIE WULTZ

  I searched the internet for “famous Wultz” and “actress Wultz” and didn’t find anything that looked right.

  Bridget said that she’s probably married or has a fake actress name, which makes sense. I think I’m just going to ask Dad, but waiting until after my birthday is just ridiculous. I mean, it’s still like a month away.

  This summer is agonizingly long. My nanny is a bitch, my mom is even weirder than normal, and getting my period turned out to suck. The only good part about it is that apparently my boobs are going to start growing soon, which is good because everyone is ahead of me. I asked Mom if I could get a training bra, and she looked at me like I’d asked for a machete. I get that I don’t really need one, but it’s embarrassing when everyone else is wearing one and I’m not. Maybe I’ll ask Paige to buy one for me. Even though she turned mean and is stuck up Mom’s ass, she still has moments where she seems okay. And she’s poor, so she will probably buy me whatever I want if I give her extra to keep.

  Yeah, I like that plan. Is that a bribe? Maybe. If so, I like that plan even more. I’ve never bribed someone before, but it seems wicked cool.

  CHAPTER 53

  PERLA

  I kissed Grant once. I know that you didn’t ask that, but I have been thinking about it ever since it all happened. I don’t think Perla ever found out. It was at the annual Christmas party at the club. I’d had too much to drink. Jeez, everyone had. Perla was running the toy-donation desk, and I had stepped out to make a call, and he was there, and I slipped on the icy walk and he was helping me up and we just had a moment, you know. Like, just this stupid moment that happened before you know it. But I never dated him or anything. I swear. So if you’re looking for, like, a secret mistress—that isn’t me, but you should really look at the nanny.

  —Marci Vennigan, salon owner

  In Grant’s office, there was a locked file drawer in the far end of his massive credenza. We had never discussed it, but I’d found it when I was snooping through his office. I made the discovery on the day we left for Spain and had to suffer through eight days of vineyards and wine tastings before we finally returned home and I could hunt down the key and unlock it.

  The key hadn’t been hard to find—a small gold digit on his car-key chain—which cemented my belief that the lock on the cabinet was for Sophie’s benefit, not mine.

  That day I waited until he left for work and Sophie was at school, then went upstairs and opened the drawer. Inside was a thick stack of neatly labeled folders. I sat on the Persian rug in his office and spread the contents out before me.

  Now, with Paige and Sophie at the mall and Grant at the office, I did the same.

  The folders were a gold mine of Folcrum data, and I once again wondered how my husband had gotten copies of the original case files. Everything was here, in black-and-white printouts. The crime scene. Lists of evidence. Leewood’s fingerprint records. Interview transcripts. Photos of the victims. I stared for a long time at the photo of Jenny Folcrum on a medical stretcher, surrounded by a team of emergency professionals, her neck a bloody, gaping hole. Kitty Green’s photos were there, along with Lucy’s, and I tapped the photo that showed the jagged S cut into her stomach, in homage to the Murder Unplugged access it had provided me.

  Grant’s obsession with the murders wasn’t normal or healthy, but then again, neither was mine. I ran my hand reverently over the mug shot photo of Leewood, his handsome face scowling into the camera.

  Just one hour away. The familiar surge of fear and desire swelled inside me. As always, I pushed it back down and dropped the photo to the side.

  I needed to focus on the crime scene photos, so I studied each one, ignoring the bloody bodies and homing in on the backgrounds, looking for small details I could claim and reuse.

  The streamers around the room.

  The mini cupcakes with sprinkles, the cheap package open, half of them gone.

  The two-liter of off-brand soda.

  The white comforter spread on the carpet, acting as a picnic blanket.

  There was a lot there that I could use, and the good news was that even the minor things would stand out because they wouldn’t fit in our house.

  Yes. I inhaled deeply. This could—would—work.

  I returned my attention to the photos and switched my focus to the bloody carnage, taking mental notes of the stab wounds and body positions.

  Could I do it? Would my relationship with Sophie cause any hesitation or issue?

  I closed my eyes and thought about my child. Tried to find, in the hollow cavities of my heart, some trepidation or agony around the idea of losing her.

  Nothing. It was strange how sensitive I was to triggers like jealousy, betrayal, and competition but so completely void in other areas.

  Strange but appreciated. I liked the blank slate that was my heart. I liked everything about myself. This event, it would upgrade my life. Drop some of the bad, bring in some good.

  Truth be told, I was excited for it.

  CHAPTER 54

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  “Well, Mr. Folcrum, I don’t have good news.” The doc sat on the metal stool and regarded me. “I’m guessing you have two weeks, maybe three. If you were on the outside, we’d be moving you into hospice right now.”

  Not a huge surprise, or an unwelcome one.

  “I can do my best to make you comfortable, and we can move you into medical if—”

  “No.” I shook my head. The only worse thing than having your body slowly break down was doing it while handcuffed to a hospital bed.

  He nodded. “I figured as much. Come by here twice a day for pain meds. I’ll alert the COs and the warden. You’re done working, starting immediately.”

  I wouldn’t bitch about that.

  “Get your affairs in order, Folcrum. Meet with the chaplain. Any last words or confessions you want to make—now’s the time.” He held my gaze and I grunted.

  “Thanks, Doc.” I pushed off the exam table and stood. “Can’t say I’m disappointed to get out of this place, even if it is in a body bag.”

  He opened the door. “I dispense medicine, not advice, but think about the people out there who are looking for closure. Do that for me?”

  I met his eyes as I moved past him and through the door. “I got my own closure to find, Doc. But sure, I’ll think on it.”

  I thought on it. The doc was right. I had felt guilt over both Kitty’s and Lucy’s families for decades, so the next morning, with no job to report to, I wrote the brother a letter that was different from any one I had ever sent him.

  Part of me—a big part of me—wanted to confront him about visiting, about being Tim, but I didn’t. I swallowed all that and focused on what I had done wrong and all the things he hated me for.

  You’re desperate to understand why and how that night happened, and I have to say, I don’t understand the need to know. There was an outcome: death. Why does the motivation behind the act matter? Why does it matter if it was a mental break or anger or jealousy or perversion or something else? It happened, now we have to deal with the fallout.

  I was recently told that I need to provide closure to those that are hurting. You, out of everyone, seem to be hurting the most, so I would like to go ahead and give you that closure. Frame this letter, because it’s the only time I’ll say this, and it’s also the last letter you’ll ever receive from me.

  You already know that I’m dying. Have been for a while, but the doctors say that the end is close, so if I’m ever going to give you any peace, now is probably the time to do it.

  I killed your sister. I did it because I’m a sick fuck who likes to hear little girls scream and I wanted to know what the act felt like. I killed the first girl, and when that was done, I continued on so that there wouldn’t be any witnesses.

  I’m sorry. I am sincere about that. I’m sorry that that whole night happened and for my part in it. I wish I’d never met your little sister. I wish I’d just killed myself before she was ever born, before any of this could have ever come into play.

  But I didn’t. And I can’t bring your sister back, but know that I have paid the price for her life. I’ve been locked in this place of hell for two decades. I’ve thought about the mistakes I’ve made for every day of that sentence.

  Like I said, I can’t bring her back. But I am sorry.

  I killed her. And for no good reason at all. There isn’t anything you could have done to prevent it, no mistakes that you or her parents made, no signs that would have tipped you off that a fucking psychopath lived at my address.

  Bad things happen sometimes. Not your fault. She died fast, she didn’t suffer, she blacked out from fear and pain just after the first stab occurred. Not to make this all about me, but having your body slowly eaten apart, organ by organ, by cancer . . . it’s months of excruciating pain. Nights of trying to sleep, but every part of your body is hurting. Your brain going haywire, obsessing over the pain pills and inventing pain even when there was a moment of reprieve from it.

  She had a good, quick death. Way too early, but quick and relatively painless, when compared to others, like mine.

  I hope this gives you the closure that you need. Do with this confession whatever you want. By the time this reaches you, I’ll probably already be dead.

  Leewood

  I read the letter over twice, saying the words aloud and testing them on my tongue. It was good. He wouldn’t like it, but like the doctor said, it would give him some closure. Who cared if it was all lies? I’d consider it my donation to humanity.

  I folded the paper into thirds and slid it into the envelope, then printed his PO box in neat writing on the front. I rose to my feet and headed for the commissary for a stamp.

  Tim’s next visit would be interesting, assuming he was the pen pal–writing brother. Maybe he wasn’t and I had imagined a connection where there wasn’t one.

  Either way, here was my good deed for the year. Probably my final chance for one in this lifetime.

  CHAPTER 55

  PERLA

  You know, one thing about Perla is that she didn’t have any close friends. I mean, she went to lunches with us and would host parties and such, but if you asked who her best friend was? I don’t think she had a consistent ongoing friendship with anyone. Which is sad, but I think she liked it like that. She had a wall up around her, and no one had the mental energy to scale that thing.

  —Morayi Keita, retired model

  I had some pep in my step when I walked into Dr. Maddox’s office. Murder Unplugged had been talking about the Folcrum trial nonstop, and two other podcasts had picked up the scent. I smiled at the psychiatrist, not even bothered by her zebra-striped top and pleated pants.

  My mood dissolved with her first statement.

  “I was thinking that our sessions might be more productive if Grant was here.” Dr. Maddox delivered the opinion with a cheerful beam. “Sometimes it helps to have a dialogue with both parties. It also allows me the chance to see how you two interact with each other.” She smiled encouragingly, as if she expected me to just nod like a marionette, pull out my phone, and set up something on Grant’s calendar.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” I said quickly. “I mean, Grant can’t know that I’ve even been coming here. He would be . . .” I inhaled sharply. “He can’t know,” I said, softer this time. I kept my gaze down. There was no way she was missing this clear sign of spousal trauma.

  Couples counseling with Grant was definitely not going to happen. For one, it would destroy the picture I’d so carefully drawn for her. Plus, everyone always loved Grant. I didn’t need Dr. Maddox warming to Grant. I needed her to see him as a control freak with dark and adulterous tendencies. One who might seduce a nanny and plot the murder as a way of unburdening himself and honoring the past crime. Whether or not he went to prison didn’t matter; I just needed enough doubt cast on him so that I would shine as the pillar of strength and sorrow, one the public would cheer for. One who could divorce her husband without scorn, given all the shadiness he’d been up to.