My four-year-old daughter, Emma, stood completely still for a moment—then suddenly rushed toward the pastor, shouting something that brought the entire room into stunned silence.

She had even used her sonly love as a future alibi to murder her grandchildren and then sell herself as a savior.

Trevor’s aunt started to cry.

Melissa, the unbearable cousin who always defended Miriam because “strong women are misunderstood,” sat down abruptly as if her legs had been cut off.

Nobody said anymore that Emma was fantasizing.

Not when his story fit too precisely into a cruelty that many had sensed for years, even if they preferred to call it character.