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Vernon winced as he guided his Ford F-150 along the road, winding through the countryside toward death row.

Gritting his teeth, he rode out the brief waves of pain. He’d taken his pills; it would pass. He changed his grip on the wheel as he neared Livingston. Gazing at the landscape dotted with pine and oak trees, he went over the cases again.

On the last day of her life, Jenna Dupree was working part-time as a cashier at HealthTown Drugs in Tyler. After her shift ended, she got on her bicycle and took a shortcut through tall grass on the path that led to her house.

Store security camera footage had recorded Donnie Ray Hyde, a thirty-year-old drifter, talking to Jenna in the store earlier. Jenna was unaware that Hyde, a stranger, had followed her on the path. He attacked and murdered her, taking a few personal items before concealing her body in the grass and submerging her bike in a creek.

The next day, Hyde was found sleeping in a park and arrested. Evidence found with him, and at the scene, led to his conviction and death sentence. But during their investigation, Tyler detectives discovered social media messages and photos that put Hyde in Clear River County at the time Erin Eddowes and Abby Hall were murdered.

Hyde’s brother, Brophy, who did time for robbing a gas station, lived in Tagallet Mobile Home Park near Wild Pines Forest. The pattern of the Wild Pines killings was similar to that of Jenna’s murder. And scrutiny of the evidence at Wild Pines suggested Hyde was at the crime scene.

“All circumstantial,” Will Young, the district attorney, told Vern and the investigators. “You have circumstantial dots. You need something stronger—direct evidence, or Hyde’s confession—to connect them to our Wild Pines case.”

Clear River detectives interviewed Hyde in prison several times. He denied killing Abby and Erin. He claimed to be drinking with Brophy in their single-wide that day. It was a flimsy alibi, but it was all investigators had. Through his attorney, Hyde agreed to a polygraph in prison. The results were inconclusive—without Hyde’s confession, they had no case.

Will Young and the investigators figured that Hyde had refused to admit to killing Abby and Erin because he didn’t want to hamper his death sentence appeals in the Jenna Dupree case. But now, left with no hope for a reprieve, Donnie Ray Hyde would be executed in a few weeks.

Vern’s truck’s turn signal ticked like time on a clock as he slowed to enter the Allan B. Polunsky Unit.

It was a vast dismal complex of dull gray buildings trimmed with tranquil blue. Sprawled over some fifty acres, the unit was bordered by multiple razor wire security fences, a range of surveillance sensors and armed guard towers. Here, death row inmates awaited execution in small individual cells, some with a sliver of a window.

After reporting to the guard staff, clearing the security process and slipping on his visitor’s badge, Vern went to the visiting room for death row offenders. It was a stark area with a polished floor, plastic hard-backed chairs and drab white walls, all under bright fluorescent lighting.

Death row inmates were not permitted to have contact visits, which meant using security cubicles, divided by a thick Plexiglas window, and talking through telephone handsets on either side. Vern glimpsed the white collar of Pastor Vincent Azure, a bulky man with white hair and pugnacious features sitting across from Hyde, holding a handset. Vern got into a chair, scraping it into position as they made quick, cordial greetings.

“Good, so here we go,” Azure said into the phone. “Donnie Ray, I’ll leave you two to speak in private for a spell, then I’ll be back.”

“All right.”

Azure and Hyde then pressed their hands on the glass.

“Be strong,” Azure said. “Remember what we discussed, son.”

Hyde nodded.

When the pastor left, Vern took up a handset and studied Hyde sitting inches from him in prison-issued white clothing. The last time they looked at each other was years ago when Hyde was being questioned by Clear River detectives. Now Hyde’s hair, flecked with gray, had thinned, and his face carried tiny folds and creases from his time on death row. Vern took stock of him. He had Hyde’s information committed to memory.

Born in Kilgore, Hyde had a grade eight education and had held various jobs: laborer, warehouse worker, gravedigger.

“It’s been a long time, Sheriff,” Hyde said.

“A long time. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

Hyde gave a hint of a smile.

“Nobody has thanked me for anything in a while.” Hyde waited, then said, “I agreed ’cause I was curious. Pastor Azure says you think that before I go, I might want to unburden myself. Why? I ain’t killed nobody.”

“Jenna Dupree?”

Hyde dragged his hand hard over his face. “I made my peace with that, wrote her family a letter. They’ll get their payback when they send me to the other side.”

Vern said nothing.

Hyde’s eyes narrowed; his cordiality cooled.

“I shoulda got life, not death. My trial was a farce, just like my case before the board. Did they, or the governor, even look at it?”

“Son, every appeal concerning your trial has failed. You know the board rarely grants relief if there’s no compelling reason, like errors in trial proceedings, or new solid evidence. And in your case, they found no compelling reason. It’s done.”

Hyde fell silent.

“It’s over for you. You know it. And Pastor Azure has been preparing you for the end.”

“So why did you come?”

“To help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“This is the time to clear your conscience, to make peace with your soul.”

A few seconds passed.

“Son, let’s get to the truth. We know you were in Clear River County when Abby Hall and Erin Eddowes were murdered. And we know you were in Wild Pines Forest.”

“I was in the county with Brophy having beers that day. I done told everybody that.”

“There’s no need for you to hold back the truth now,” Vern said. “The fact is, you went into the woods. And there were three of them, weren’t there? Three girls.”

Hyde was silent.

“How did you get three girls to go into the woods with you? Did you force them? Wait for them? Follow them? How did you take control?”

Hyde said nothing.

“Only the killer would know what happened,” Vern said. “And this looks a lot like Jenna’s murder.”

Hyde rubbed his chin. “No, I wasn’t with them—I was with Brophy.”

“But your brother lied to alibi you, didn’t he?”

“No, I was with him.”

“But one girl survived—you know that.”

Hyde looked at him. “Your daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“But she hurt her head and don’t remember nothin’, all the news said that.”

“ You were there and you remember. You know things only the killer would know. You’ve denied the truth for too long. Now is the time to set things right. Now, I want you to listen closely to me because this is your only chance. I’m going to tell you what we think happened because we’re running out of time and I need to hear your response. I need the truth.”

For the next twenty minutes, Vern recounted the detailed scenario investigators adhered to, a scenario that had never been made public. As Vern went over the case, piece by piece, Hyde absorbed every aspect in silence.

When Vern finished, he gave Hyde a moment, then said, “Let’s talk about your people, Donnie Ray. Your deadbeat dad died from too much drink; Brophy died five years back in that shoot-out in Georgia. All you have is your mother.”

Hyde looked away, blinking. “I’m all she’s got left.”

“Ain’t that the truth. I did some checking on her situation in Kilgore. Seems she’s in a bad way. She can’t afford to claim your body. You’ll end up in the ground at Joe Byrd.”

“She wanted me in Kilgore, next to my dad and Brophy.” Hyde looked into his empty hands and shook his head.

“Son, you might be able to help her before you go to the other side. But only if you clear your conscience, make a positive step.”

“What difference will it make?”

“Your mother might get a little help.”

Hyde stared at him.

“I want you to think long and hard after I leave,” Vern said. “It’s all in your hands. Time is ticking down to make this right, son.”