“First date, huh? In that case, I have something much better in mind.”

Dodgers game followed by Indian food followed by moonlight drive to Malibu house. But no JB documentaries. It wasn’t until we’d been together about four months that I finally asked to watch them. He didn’t mention it, I’d like to think because our relationship had started to restore his faith in the goodness of humanity and he was focused on our future rather than some random dead girl’s past. But I was curious. We didn’t spend the night together very much—like I said, his sleep schedule was like Prince Lestat’s—but when we did share the same bed, he’d turn onto his side, and there would be JB staring at me with those huge saucer eyes. What exactly happened to you? I needed to know.

Big mistake.

Liam had a whole library of JB footage. I’m talking dozens of VHS tapes. (He had to explain to me what VHS was. I’d never heard of it before. The eighties were so weird.) Most of them were those cheesy true-crime network TV shows that only run on Saturday night. We watched all of them. Both of us were in between albums and tours, so we didn’t have much else to do. And for Liam it was research. He was planning to write an epic concept album based on JB which he would release on December 25, 2021—the twenty-fifth anniversary of her death. He saw the album as his magnum opus, the work that would define his career and cement his artistic legacy. He wasn’t going to announce it. He would drop it that night and surprise his fans. “Just like JonBenét had been surprised by her killer,” he told me, swearing me to secrecy. Ooops.

The more we watched, the more I was convinced—knew, the family was somehow involved. So obvious. Liam raged against my theories; he thought it was an outsider. Hours and hours we’d argue, each of us getting firmer in our conviction.

“What about the autopsy report?”

“Forget the autopsy report. The key is the 9-1-1 call.”

“Okay, well, what about the ransom note?”

“What about it? Faked obviously.”

“The boot print.”

“Three words: Burke Fucking Ramsey.”

Back and forth we’d go. Neither of us could let it go. I don’t know why. It was literally so stupid. We’d start raising our voices in exasperation and then the two pits would start barking, which would cause Pip to start yipping her head off until one of us picked her up and stormed out of the room. This happened often.

Then one night I got a text.

Zara, I’m afraid this isn’t going to work. I’ve enjoyed our time together but I can’t be with someone who sees the JB case the way you do. Pip should stay with you. It’s only right.