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Denise Diaz navigated her Chevy Trax around potholes while avoiding the dogs running loose in Tagallet Mobile Home Park.

Flies circled the trash bins she passed as she looked closely at the numbers on the trailers. Coming to unit 33, she parked in front. Observing it, her thoughts went back to the murders as she contemplated the case.

Hyde’s brother, Brophy, had lived there, where Hyde said they drank and did drugs until he went into the woods and murdered Abby and Erin.

A loud growl vibrated Denise’s car window. She saw the dog—ears down, strings of slobber swinging from its jaws. Then she saw the unwelcoming face of a woman eyeballing her from the steps of a neighboring unit.

Denise left the trailer park, driving less than a quarter mile to Wild Pines Forest, stopping for a few minutes at the entrance, then moving to the spot where Carrie had been rescued. Denise didn’t know exactly what she hoped to accomplish by stopping at these places.

Earlier today, she’d been on a regular assignment, interviewing people who were restoring a historical building that had burned months earlier. But while returning to the newsroom, something drew her back to the murders. Ever since her article and everything that followed—her TV network appearance, her interview with the New York Times , the talk of a book and TV miniseries—Denise had found it difficult resuming the life of a small-town news reporter.

It wasn’t so much the fanfare of her brush with fame; it was the steady flow of questions and comments her article had generated. During her interview with the Times , the reporter had noted the case was a strange one.

“A lot of twists,” he’d said. “Carrie, the sheriff’s daughter, is a suspect, then Hyde emerges, and after denying involvement for so long, he makes a last-minute confession.”

The Times ran its feature, giving rise to more comments and questions. Some were outlandish, some congratulatory, others cast conspiracies. In its wake, Denise began doubting if her reporting on the murders was complete.

She couldn’t let it go. Still, she wasn’t certain what to do about it as she arrived in the newsroom. Trying to focus on something else, she wrote up the historical building item, which took little time.

She got a coffee, then went back to her desk, thinking as she sorted through all the comments on her murder story. She went way back to early ones that came immediately after her live interview with Haylee Hunt in New York.

Scrolling through them, she wasn’t sure what she was looking for.

Saw you with Haylee Hunt. Great work Denise.

Well-written story, Denise. Good job relating this terrible tragedy.

Just read your excellent report and thinking how Carrie lost her mother, was almost murdered, and now her father’s dying. How much is a person supposed to bear?

You don’t have the real story. That’s not what happened.

The last one came from someone using the name FactorRex31, and it hit a nerve.

Do I have the real story?

Denise then went to a new wave of recent comments that had followed the feature about her and the story in the New York Times , stopping on one in particular.

Diaz is giving DRH too much credit.

Again, that was FactorRex31.

Denise gave the comments little currency. Like trolls, just someone being an armchair quarterback. But comments like those fueled her doubts. Taking a hit of coffee, she began typing, opening her folders on the case. Jumping from Hyde’s confession to forensic reports, crime scene photos to her interview with Mary-Ellen Hyde. She scanned them quickly, reconciling them with some of the comments until it dawned on her.

Something doesn’t add up.

She tapped her finger on her mouse.

Some pieces just don’t fit.

After turning things over in her mind, she went to her contacts, then called Barry Fitzsimmons at Communications for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. He’d set up the media witnesses at Hyde’s execution. Once she’d reached him, she made a request. Taking a moment, he said he’d have to check.

Denise reread more files in the time it took him to get back to her.

“This is preliminary,” Fitzsimmons said. “We still need to confirm a few things, but we should be able to accommodate your request. I’ll get back to you with a day and time.”

Denise thanked him.

Pleased with her small success, she went to Lynn Grant, who was feeding her fish.

“Gave your fire story a quick read. Looks good. We’re going to need you to do a feature on a local artist. Her paintings and sculptures are going to be showcased in Chicago. I’ll send you the info. Take lots of photos.”

“About that, Lynn. Something’s come up. I want to go to Livingston.”

“What’s in Livingston?”

“Death row.”

Lynn looked at her. “Is it the story?”

“Yes.”

“Denise, you did a fantastic job on a big story. But we’re still a small paper.”

“Listen, I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not right. I’ve got to do more digging.”

Lynn was weighing her request.

“Tell you what,” Denise said. “I’ll do the artist story first, as soon as possible. Then I’ll go to Livingston.”

Letting out a long breath, Lynn nodded. “Okay.”