Chapters (97)
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Praise
- Booklist
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Eighty-Six
- Eighty-Seven
- Eighty-Eight
- Eighty-Nine
- Acknowledgments & A Personal Note
- Excerpt
Tears rolled down his face. Then his concentration left the closet and the bedroom, going to the hallway, the light hitting the wall displaying three words scrawled there in blood.
KILL THEM ALL
As he tried to process everything, Marv called 9-1-1 again. This time for police, just as Fran’s cries reached up from the main floor.
“She’s breathing! Marv, I think Connie’s alive!”
At that moment they heard the first approaching siren.
Nine
Cielo Valle, Orange County, California
Present day
The pressure on Ben Grant to start a new book was mounting.
The conference call with his agent and editor was not for another half hour. He’d only taken a cursory look at the latest list of crime stories they’d sent him to consider. Nothing really grabbed him.
Searching for a solution he looked to the framed covers on his office wall, to remind himself of what he did for a living.
He chronicled death.
With titles like, Darkness Waiting, The Killer No One Knew, A Blood Trail in Australia, Devil’s Dance in Paris, The Lone Star Murders, and all the others, he had journeyed into society’s darkest corners. Visiting realms of horror and anguish had left him with memories of survivors, perpetrators and the dead.
In writing his books Ben had talked with everyone connected to the crimes. Investigators analyzed the facts. The survivors had trusted him with their pain and what they had left to give to honor those they’d lost. The criminals talked out of self-interest because they wanted their story told, or what they presented as their story. No matter what the guilty ones said, or how they framed their role, Ben reiterated the cold, hard truth.
Through it all he believed he had a solemn duty to attempt to make sense of the acts that defied comprehension and illustrate the toll they exacted. He drew upon his university studies of journalism, literature, existentialism, philosophy and a course examining religious responses to death. Not only did they prepare him for reporting on crime, they equipped him for the books he was destined to write.
At times he felt like Virgil, the blind poet who had guided Dante through hell. But Ben had always infused his work with humanity, understanding and compassion. Still, he took into account the old caution about “gazing too long into an abyss,” for it had filled him with a secret fear that death would touch him, too.
Tragedy came for him that day four years ago when those two San Bernardino deputies knocked on his cabin door, and he knew, he just knew before the first one even spoke.
Sir, I’m sorry to inform you…