Two girls entered, and I’m shit at ages, but the brunette looked to be in college. The blonde was Jenny’s age when I last saw her, and my breath caught in my throat when our gazes connected.

  Even without the photo Grant had shown me, I would have known. I would have recognized Jenny’s child anywhere. She had the same crooked nose. The same sharp, intelligent eyes. The same Cupid’s bow–shaped mouth.

  “Hey, Lee.” She smiled, and my own mouth trembled as a wave of emotion and grief hit me. I tried to respond, but instead started to weep.

  I told them everything, a final confession of my soul. I didn’t care about the cameras and I didn’t share that I had told Grant the truth—I just told them what had happened the night of the party and that I hadn’t spoken to Jenny since the night I was arrested.

  I already knew that Jenny had died—that news had made it to the prison, and I spoke freely about the past, no longer bound to keep her secrets.

  I didn’t tell them my opinion of what had supposedly happened to Jenny. There was no way my daughter took her own life. I suspected Grant—but to be honest, I didn’t give a damn how it had happened. What mattered was that this little girl was okay. Hopefully, history wouldn’t repeat itself and put Grant in prison for her crime. If it did, he’d do the time, and without bitching. You did what you had to do to protect your children.

  They stayed almost an hour. At the end, the blonde—Sophie—gave me a kiss on the cheek, and I gripped her hand for a long moment, my waterworks springing back to life.

  Then they walked out, my vision blurry as I watched them leave, and I realized I didn’t even know who the brunette was or why she had tagged along.

  CHAPTER 92

  GRANT

  Our investigation took a bit of a wandering path because so many things just didn’t line up. It was like an onion, with more layers and people and different stories the more we peeled things back. We had all this evidence that seemed to point to him plotting to kill the girls . . . but then the girls were safe, and the wife was dead. It was a clusterfuck, pardon my French. We finally got enough to arrest him, but I didn’t like it.

  —Detective Hal Heinwright, Pasadena Police Department

  I was in general population for eighteen hours, which was the closest to hell I’ve ever been. I tried to keep to myself, but I stood out, and that wasn’t a good thing. I had a black eye and a swollen jaw, and I was missing a front tooth by the time they moved me into solitary confinement.

  At least in prison, I could see and understand the dangers. In my marriage, I had been in a Venus flytrap of hell, stepping in booby traps right and left, completely ignorant to them all.

  I wasn’t sure I was going to get out of this, and it was terrifying to think of the fact that I was minutes away from being in this same situation, but with three dead victims, including my daughter. In that alternative scenario, Perla would have still been alive and vomiting out all sorts of bullshit to the cops. It would have buried me. I was having a hard enough time keeping my head aboveground with all the existing “evidence” against me.

  I’d always known my wife was smart, but I hadn’t realized she was evil. My cell phone was recovered from Perla’s pocket, along with hers. Mine had a long litany of internet searches for “Folcrum murder,” “send untraceable emails,” “how to drug someone,” and dozens of other incriminating topics. All the searches had been made in the middle of the night, the histories quickly cleared without any time spent in the browser results, and Paul thinks we can prove that the phone events were part of Perla’s attempt to set me up, not actual searches on my part.

  My phone had also turned off the security cameras, but one of the Scotts’ had captured a thin dressed-in-black figure punching in a gate code just before the madness started. That was where Perla had gone. To enter Paige’s code in an attempt to place her at the scene. That video is another point in my favor, but I’m not sure it’s enough.

  The picture the prosecution was painting of me didn’t make sense. I’d supposedly been in cahoots with someone who fancied themselves the original Folcrum Party killer—they won’t agree that he was involved in the original crime—and me and that killer had teamed up to kill Perla and decorate the crime scene to resemble the Folcrum Party.

  It’s ridiculous . . . but as a scientist, I could agree that the data points connected.

  My “growing relationship” with the nanny. Flirty texts. Requests for her to purchase identical items (like the cupcakes) from the original scene. The frantic texts the night of the crime.

  My emails with this TFK guy. There weren’t many, but they created another dataset of support.

  “My” rule that Sophie could only have two friends at the party. Why had I let her communicate it to Sophie as my directive?

  And lastly, my visits to Leewood. I’d screwed myself with those. They had been harmless at the time, but now . . . given this angle the police had adopted . . . they looked like I had been collaborating with him. Plotting, with my visits increasing in frequency until right before the party.

  The thing was . . . Perla had expected to kill the three girls, and all her setup of me was designed to point to that goal. It was a small flaw, but it was there and supported my story that she had planned to frame me, gone to kill the girls, discovered they were missing, and killed herself.

  At least, to me it supported the story. And it wasn’t just that angle of logic that was on my side.

  Sophie, Bridget, and Mandolin had blood work and urine tests done, with results that tested positive for Ambien. They all stated that I hadn’t given them anything to eat, that everything had been served by Perla.

  Even though they’d found texts from my phone instructing Paige to buy a Ouija board, playing cards, and cupcakes, my fingerprints weren’t on any of the items.

  A psychiatrist had stepped forward, revealing that Perla had visited her thirteen times in the last three months and had been increasingly critical and suggestive of the possibility of me having an affair with the nanny and also an obsession with the Folcrum Party. The doctor’s suspicions about Perla’s intentions had grown, and she had categorized her as narcissistic and a potential sociopath, though she had not shared either diagnosis with Perla.

  And there was the call from the soccer academy, who shared that Perla had told them that Sophie was dead, weeks before the night of her party. It wasn’t proof of intent, but it was a strike against her and evidence that my wife was batshit crazy.

  My defense wasn’t ironclad, but there were enough things that—if this made it to a jury trial—could cast reasonable doubt. No one could prove that I had my hand on Perla’s when the knife dragged across her throat. No one could prove that I’d done anything other than witness a horrible event.

  The psychiatrist’s diagnosis irked me, and it was embarrassing that a stranger had seen the truth in Perla when I hadn’t. Granted, Dr. Maddox was professionally trained, but still. I had seen enough evidence of Perla’s lack of empathy, cruel behavior, and manipulation that I should have realized the dangers, or at least been more aware than I was. Instead, I let my affection and attachment to Lucy’s memory trigger this ideology that, by loving and taking care of Perla, I was, by extension, giving those things to Lucy.

  The thought was ridiculous, but one that had fed more than a decade of marriage to a woman who had stabbed my sister over a dozen times and watched her bleed to death.

  I didn’t regret killing my wife. I regretted not doing it sooner. I regretted that it took the endangerment of my daughter in order for me to take action.

  “Wultz.” A guard unlocked the cell door and gestured for me. “You have a visitor.”

  CHAPTER 93

  SOPHIE WULTZ

  Leewood Folcrum passed two days after the visit of Sophie Wultz and Paige Smith. His personal effects were collected by Wally Nall, except for a package of papers that he left for Sophie Wultz. No funeral was held, and he was cremated and interred in the Lancaster Prison cemetery.

  —Alex Boyton, Lancaster Prison warden

  My mother once told me that a lie only mattered if the side effects did. She was right about that, as she was about most things. After today, people would say horrible things about my mother, but she was right about most things. Like being famous. I once told her that I wanted to be an influencer, and she told me that it was better to be famous for doing something rather than being someone.

  After all this, I’ve become famous. I didn’t realize I was until Mandolin and I stepped out of her father’s car at the mall and two photographers rushed forward to take my photos and scream a bunch of questions at me. I didn’t answer any of them. I looked around for Paige, and she came around the back of the car and screamed at them to get away.

  Paige now lives in one of the bedrooms in the Contis’ employee house. It’s at the back of their property and is where Mandolin’s nanny and their housekeeper and chef live. I’m paying for Paige’s costs. Dad transferred a bunch of money into my savings account, and the banker came to the house with a bunch of forms and brought me a debit card and a bunch of checks and told me to just use those for anything I need. Mandolin’s mom—her name is Gia—told me how much to write it for and showed me how to fill it out to Paige.

  Anyway, I digress. That’s a new word I learned this week. Gia uses it all the time. Best I can tell, it means that I’ve gotten off topic. The point of this entry is that right now, I’m famous for being the daughter of Perla and Grant Wultz. No one really knows much about the fact that my mom was trying to kill me (or Mand or Bridget), which is why no one cares about taking their pictures.

  I’m famous for who I am, not what I’ve done. But that will change in two hours. That’s when I’m going on television. I told them that I’m going to share the truth about my mother.

  And I’ll do that. I’ll tell the truth in the way that my mother taught me. A way paved in lies.

  CHAPTER 94

  GRANT

  We tried to get a statement from Leewood Folcrum before he passed, but we couldn’t get anything from him. We had to go live without a statement from him or Grant Wultz, whose attorney had him on a no-contact gag order. So really, all we—or America, in general—had to go on was what little twelve-year-old Sophie Wultz had to say. And that, of course, was a doozy.

  —Neil McArthur, broadcast journalist

  “I don’t understand how this happened. Who set this up?” I spun the small touchpad screen toward me, watching a video of my daughter walking across a stage and taking a seat across from Neil McArthur. The journalist smiled, and I was surprised his teeth weren’t fangs. He was going to destroy her. Dig and berate until she was in tears. This was going to be terrible, both for her psyche but also for our case. Sophie didn’t realize how much one line, one little bit of information, could sink me. “She’s twelve. Doesn’t she need parental permission for this?”

  Paul Reachen shook his head grimly. “This isn’t with the police or the courts. She’s speaking publicly. She can do that however she wants. Doesn’t matter if it’s being recorded. As long as she doesn’t defame someone, she’s not breaking any laws.”

  There was someone else with her, a thin young woman with gaunt cheeks. A strip across the bottom of the screen introduced her as Rachel Goodsmith, from a podcast called Murder Unplugged.

  I rubbed my hand across my face, wincing when I touched the tender ridge of my nose. “Can you try to call her?”

  He didn’t say anything, and we both knew how futile a phone call would be at this point. We were lucky he’d caught wind of this in time to get to the jail and get me in a private visitation room. That was something I hadn’t expected, all those times I met with Leewood. That one day, I would be on the inmate side of the table.

  Sophie had moved past the introductions, and they were now showing a photo of her and Perla, one that had just been taken a week or so earlier by the private photographer Perla had hired. We’d never had a professional photo shoot before, and it was just another example of a red flag I had missed. Stand here, Grant. Smile. Put your arm around me. Dance, monkey. Dance.

  “Tell us about your mother, Sophie,” Neil urged.

  “A lot has been said about my mom this last week.” She fidgeted, her hands rolling over each other in her lap. Nervousness was a look I had never seen on my daughter. Not before a dentist appointment, not before a piano recital or a penalty shot in an important game. I frowned, trying to understand it. “I thought it was important that I tell you about the person I knew.”

  “Oh, this is not what we need,” Paul muttered.

  “Just wait,” I said, curious about what Sophie was about to say.

  My daughter turned to the camera and took a deep breath before she spoke. “My mother was wonderful in a lot of ways. She was a lot of fun. She taught me things constantly. She pushed me to succeed and showed me how to be a strong female and stand my ground and demand the best.”

  “Yeah, a regular Margaret Thatcher,” Paul drawled.

  “Do you realize that your father is trying to paint your mother as a murderer? He says that she killed her friends when she was your age and had planned to kill you and your friends at your party!” Neil hunched forward, and every time he said the word kill, his voice rose in skepticism. I wanted to kill him.

  “My mom did kill her friends.” She looked into the camera, and now there was no sign of her nerves. Her face was calm, her eyes steady. “And I have no doubt that she would have killed me, if she’d had the chance.”

  Whatever Neil had been expecting, this wasn’t it. He paused, looked down at his notes, then back at her. “You say that with such authority. Why do you think that?”

  “Because it wasn’t the first time she tried to hurt me.” She pressed her lips together tightly, as if she were close to tears, then inhaled and looked into the camera again. “When I was eight, she tried to drown me in the bathtub. I was clawing at her, screaming under the bubbles, when our housekeeper heard the noise and came in the bathroom. She stopped, and she pulled me out of the water and held me against her chest, and I was screaming and crying, and she told Ana—that was our housekeeper—to go away, to leave us alone, but she whispered in my ear that she would kill me if I didn’t stop crying. And when she tucked me in that night, she told me that she’d do it again, would drown me in the pool if I ever told anyone about it. And her eyes . . .” Sophie visibly shivered and she hesitated, then started again. “She would get this look in her eyes sometimes. Like she was dead. Like no matter what you said or did, you couldn’t get through to her, you couldn’t change her mind. That was the look on her face. Both when she pushed me underwater and when she promised to kill me if I talked.”

  Paul turned to me. “Did you know about this?”

  I shook my head but didn’t trust myself to speak. I hadn’t known about it because it didn’t happen. Not that I would put it past Perla, but it didn’t happen. And no one would be able to confirm or disprove it with Ana because she was back in Honduras. I looked into the screen, staring into my daughter’s beautiful face, and could swear that the corner of her mouth twitched into the hint of a smile.

  Maybe this would do it. I looked from her smile to Paul’s face. He was grinning, and I felt my own lips curve in response.

  CHAPTER 95

  SOPHIE WULTZ

  Tech traced the TFK emails best they could. Majority were sent from an anonymous email and a private VPN server, but one email—the second to last one that was sent—wasn’t encoded, and we traced it to the Wultz home IP address. We found it unlikely Grant was sending emails to himself from two different accounts, so that was just another big arrow that pointed to Perla’s culpability.

  —Detective Hal Heinwright, Pasadena Police Department

  Today they’re releasing Dad from jail. Paul got the DA to dismiss the charges, and while we are probably going to be back in court, thanks to Bridget’s litigious parents, it will be for a civil suit, and nothing that would put Dad back in jail.

  I’m going to live stream his release and add it to the socials I set up in his name. Turns out, my dad is almost as famous as me. Apparently, he’s hot, according to all the comments and fan clubs that have sprung up. He’s not. He has gray hair already and farts if he eats ice cream. Also, according to Paul, he’s a little beat up, but that’s okay. It’ll make for good footage.

  I’m certain that as soon as we are away from the cameras and alone, he’s going to lecture me on my lies to the cops and Neil McArthur. And yeah, I lied. I had to because Dad needed to get out of jail and I know Mom would have killed us because I was on the balcony the whole time, watching it happen. I saw her walking toward our bed with the knife and I saw my father stop her.

  If he starts to get too self-righteous, I’ll tell him that. I’ll tell him that I lied because I had to. Just like he killed Mom because he had to.

  We’ll see what he has to say in response to that.

  I don’t blame him for it. I would have killed her too. I know it’s easy for someone to say that, but even in my half-drugged state, I could understand the threat, and I also knew my mom—just like Dad did. If you kicked her down, stood in the way between her and something . . . she’d raise HELL to destroy your life while completing the journey to her goal.

  So he did what was needed to be done. But I couldn’t have him locked away behind bars. He’s too soft for that. There are no birds in prison.

  He did what needed to be done, so I did the same.

  I measured the side effects, then I made the decision and I lied.

  Honestly, Mom would have been proud.

  CHAPTER 96

  GRANT

  Three Weeks Later

  We’re finally leaving the house where all this took place. Sophie and I have each packed a single suitcase. Her dolls, her books, her furniture, her clothes . . . it’s all staying, as is everything else Perla and I collected over the course of our marriage. Sophie has her journal, and I have my bird-watching book. We have our toothbrushes, a few changes of clothes, and enough money in our account to move anywhere in the world we want to live.