And maybe Lena felt the same warm glow, because she clicked her glass against mine. “Compared to that guy, y’all are a definite improvement.”

C2C TRANSCRIPT

5

Helen: Now we have to discuss the facts of the crime. This couple killed over a dozen victims that we know for sure, both men and women.

Julia: That’s weird, right? Because serial killers usually stick to a preferred gender or victimology. They’re what you’d call “resistant to change.”

Helen: Understatement! In fact, Dean Corll, “the Candyman,” took exception when his accomplice showed up with a girl victim instead of a boy, and that fight led to his death. The Gallego couple preferred teenage girls, the Moorhouse Murderers killed women, as did Infante and Villeda and the Hillside Stranglers, while the Moors Murderers—Ian Brady and Myra Hindley—preyed on children.

Julia: Crimes of opportunity.

Helen: Definitely. They’d drive around until they saw a potential victim.

Julia: Someone easy to overpower.

Helen: True. That wasn’t the case with the team we’re discussing today. They preyed on men, women, young—well, teenagers—and old. That’s a big reason nobody suspected a serial killer was operating in the area. No common victimology. Some of their victims were strong. Like Marcus Fontenot. He was ex-military, and even though he was older—

Julia: How old was he?

Helen: [sound of papers] He was … over seventy. Here it is. Seventy-five. But he was a big guy. Six feet even.

Julia: Not the easiest target.

Helen: And that’s so strange. One of the earliest targets was a young woman, another was a teenage boy, but some victims like Marcus would be a struggle to subdue.

Julia: Assuming he had enough time to struggle.

Helen: That’s the thing. Maybe it seemed less dangerous, being approached by two people—

Julia: Especially when one’s a woman—

Helen: Exactly. He let his guard down.

CHAPTER

7

NOW DAYS HAD gone by since I’d told someone—more than one person—about my past, and no one seemed to care. No tar, no feathers, no public shaming. So, when my phone buzzed with a text and then another, I didn’t panic. Sitting at the kitchen table with my coffee, I sipped it deliberately, savoring. I had a new number, a new life, a new friend. My phone wasn’t a coiled snake, poised to strike.

In the weeks following Aimee’s betrayal, an article had been published in the local paper, a statement had been made by the museum, and suddenly I was receiving hate texts and prank calls. A hundred messages from strangers made it clear they thought I hadn’t gotten half the punishment I deserved, and each had a special reason I should be ashamed—not only of what I’d supposedly done, but of my very existence. Entitled, sheltered, spoiled.

And then they’d call me lucky for getting off unpunished.