In the book The Twelfth Victim: The Innocence of Caril Fugate in the Starkweather Murder Rampage, authors Linda M. Battisti and John Stevens Berry paint a horrific scene of the couple’s capture by police, describing how Caril was vilified in the press and grilled by prosecuting attorneys without being told she had a right to counsel. The book tells of the young girl’s overwhelming, dizzying exhaustion, of screaming hordes outside the courthouse, of flashbulbs popping and hurled epithets, and the slowly dawning revelation that her entire family was gone, that she was being charged rather than rescued, that she was, for all intents and purposes, completely alone in the world . . .

It’s a narrative that sadly makes more sense than the darkly romantic one I’d come to know through movies and song—one more in keeping with the fate of the real Caril Fugate, who went on to marry and lead a quiet life after being paroled in 1976, finding work as a janitorial assistant and medical technician before retiring. And it was a narrative that felt too hopeless and pointless and unfair for fiction.

In creating April, I saw a girl around the same age as Caril but in most other ways very different. While April too is robbed of her family and kidnapped by a boyfriend she no longer loves, I saw her as someone who might adapt to her captivity more quickly than the real-life girl, finding hope wherever she could—in the pages of the Bible, in the idea of a future child, in her own simmering rage, and in the chambers of a gun. I saw her as someone who could find within herself the capacity for murder, someone who can—and does—kill. I saw her as a furious survivor—someone who emotionally (and, in a way, physically) goes to hell and back.

In writing the rest of the book, I thought to myself: How would I feel if I knew this girl?

And then, I thought: How would I feel if she were my mother?

—Alison Gaylin

Five True Crime Podcasts That Will Keep You Up All Night

I’ve been a true crime addict for years, and a commuter for nearly as long. Put both of those things together, and you’ll understand how happy I am that true crime podcasts have become so popular in recent years. As someone with a degree in journalism, I appreciate the way these producers do a deep-dive into the subject matter, combining research, deft interviewing skills, suspenseful structuring—and often a touch of memoir—to provide an immersive experience, much like the Tom Wolfe, Joan Didion, and Hunter S. Thompson New Journalism pieces I fell in love with when I was younger. There are many of these podcasts I could recommend, but here are a few to start out with . . .