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“No, Donnie Ray didn’t want me to witness it.” Mary-Ellen Hyde’s voice weakened. “He knew I couldn’t bear it.” She set a mug of coffee on her kitchen table in front of her guest.

“Thank you,” Denise Diaz said.

Mary-Ellen sat as though the world was on her shoulders.

“You say he didn’t suffer? It was like going to sleep?”

“Yes.”

Eyes glistening, Mary-Ellen gazed out the window over her chipped sink. For some forty years, she’d lived in this two-bedroom frame home with a leaky roof, blistered paint and a sagging front porch propped up with cinder blocks. It sat on a patch of dirt and grass in the northwest part of Kilgore.

It had taken Denise a little under two hours to make the drive from Clear River that morning. Lynn, her editor, was reluctant to let her go, but Denise told her it was important. Determined to tell the full story of the murders in Wild Pines Forest, she wanted to talk to as many people connected to the case as she could. Hyde’s mother had welcomed her into her home.

“It’s been a hard life,” Mary-Ellen said. “Jack, my husband, drank and gambled. His family had problems with the law, drugs, booze, everything. Jack said they inherited misfortune. ‘It’s in our blood,’ he’d say.”

Mary-Ellen looked at her hands, gnarled with arthritis.

“Must be true because trouble always found Brophy and Donnie Ray wherever those boys went,” she said.

“I don’t deny that Donnie Ray, that he—” Mary-Ellen paused, unable to voice the correct word “—that he hurt that little girl in Tyler. He told me. He said it was like being under some spell and it wasn’t really him doing the hurting. He said the girl appeared in his prison cell at night, standing at the foot of his cot, asking him why.”

Mary-Ellen shook her head slowly. “Lord only knows. But I can tell you this: in all my visits with him over the years, when I could make it to Livingston, Donnie Ray never once admitted to hurting those two girls in Clear River County. What he did in Tyler was wrong, to be sure, and he got convicted for it. Paid for it. But confessing like he did, at the last minute, to hurting two more girls? I just can’t believe it. I know he done wrong, and my heart breaks for the families, but for him to take away three girls. Three? I don’t believe it. That would make him a monster.”

She touched a tissue to her eyes.

“We had a hard life. What’s done is done. Now my boys are in their graves next to their daddy. Lord, I hope with all my heart that Donnie Ray’s death brings peace to the families of those girls.”

Mary-Ellen thought for a long moment, then her face creased into the hint of a mournful smile.

“Funny how not long after Donnie Ray’s passing, some good fortune came.”

“What do you mean?”

“The other day, I got word that some of my financial difficulties got straightened out, on taxes and other debts. It was a godsend.”

“Isn’t that interesting.”

“Strange how things go.”

Mary-Ellen looked to the window and the blue sky as they talked more about how she planned to bring fresh flowers to the graves of her husband and sons.

Wrapping things up, Denise collected her recorder and notebook. Then she took photos of Mary-Ellen in Hyde’s childhood bedroom as Mary-Ellen cradled a picture of him when he was ten years old.

***

Of course Mary-Ellen couldn’t accept Donnie Ray’s eleventh-hour confession, Denise thought later, after ordering a club sandwich in a Kilgore diner. What mother wants to accept giving birth to and raising a serial killer?

Or, in Mary-Ellen’s words, a monster.

It was strange that Mary-Ellen had received word of financial relief at the time she was mourning the end of her family. Weird how life unfolds , Denise thought, pulling her notebook and phone from her bag and placing them on the table of her booth.

She was under pressure because Lynn had cleared her to chase the story. With a small staff, it meant others had to pick up extra assignments, including Lynn, who was handling things Denise would’ve done.

Her food came and she ate while reviewing her work. She’d already talked to Abby’s and Erin’s relatives. There were a few revelations there, she thought as she struck them off her list.

Next, she was headed to Tyler to interview Jenna’s family as well as the investigators who’d tipped Clear River County to Hyde.

She also wanted to talk to the first lead detectives on the Clear River County murders: Eve Trainor and Ben McGraw. She’d tracked down their contact information and sent messages but hadn’t heard back yet.

Aspects critical to the story remained a challenge. She was having trouble getting her hands on the entire file, which held reports, statements, forensic tests, Hyde’s confession—everything related to the Wild Pines murders. She’d asked for it over a week ago.

No word on the status.

Denise was concerned. Scrolling through her contacts on her phone, she pressed a number knowing that her ID would come up at the other end.

It rang twice.

“Hello, Denise.”

“Hi, Sheriff. It’s been a week.”

“Well, it’s like I told you.” She heard the squeak of Ellerd’s office chair as he leaned back. “I’m not sure we can release it.”

“Really?”

“We’re looking into a few things first.”

“What few things?”

“Just a few things.”

“Sheriff, the investigation’s over, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

“So there’s nothing outstanding to hinder prosecution of any sort. Hyde’s confession was assessed and accepted, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I would like a copy of the file. I’ve assured your office that the Chronicle will pay for the copying costs, or for the time it takes to give us a digital copy. It’s been more than a week now.”

“We’re looking at your request.”

“You know I have other options, Sheriff. It might take me longer, but I’ll make a formal request for the entire file under the Texas Public Information Act, compelling you to release it under the law. And if you still don’t release it, or if you withhold parts of it, the Chronicle can go to court and make an appeal. Think of the media attention that will bring down on your office. You know that’s our legal right under the law, Sheriff.”

A moment passed between them.

“I know the law, Denise. I never said we wouldn’t release it. I just said we’re looking into a few things.”

“How much longer?”

“No more than a day or two, at most.”

“All right, Sheriff. Thank you. I’ll keep checking.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

Ending her call, Denise exhaled, sipped her diet cola, then ate more of her sandwich. While chewing, she gnawed on her need to get the case file. Why was Ellerd stalling? What few things could they still be looking into? It shouldn’t take long to copy it. Not much had changed over thirteen years. The only new addition was Hyde’s confession.

Accessing the file was critical to the story Denise was going to write. She wanted to take readers back to that day in Wild Pines. To do that, she needed two things: the case file and an interview with the only living witness, Carrie. With those two pillars, she could fill in the blanks, tell the full story of the mystery that had gripped the county, the state and the country for thirteen years.

And she had to get it out before anyone beat the Chronicle to it. This tragedy happened in our community , she thought. We have to tell the definitive story. It’s a matter of journalistic pride.

Denise had reached out to Carrie for an interview. No response. Denise had then contacted Luke, Carrie’s husband. Again, no response. Finally, a few days ago, a message came from Vern, Carrie’s father.

Carrie doesn’t want to talk about the case. We refer you to the statements she made at the press conference in Huntsville.

Denise did not want to reuse those older comments that were already public. She wanted an exclusive interview with Carrie about that day, with the aim of getting as many untold details as Carrie could remember. Denise was aware Carrie had suffered a head injury in the attack, leaving her with a spotty memory—it was what gave rise to rumors and suspicions about her—but Denise wanted as much as she could get. She wanted to tell the whole story. And for that she needed to talk to Carrie.

She leaned back in her booth seat.

Maybe she needed to show up at Carrie’s house again. Or follow her, approach her, plead face-to-face. Maybe that was what it was going to take. Denise collected her things, paid her check and headed for her car.

Being persistent was part of her job.