If you commit murder and then vanish, what you leave behind isn’t just pain but absence, a supreme blankness that triumphs over everything else.

The doorbell rings. No one expects catastrophe.

Who you are in the dark shows who you really are.

You’ll be silent forever, and I’ll be gone in the dark.

There’s a scream permanently lodged in my throat now.

I need to see his face. He loses his power when we know his face.

Memory has a massive backspace button, and the process of recollection is rarely linear.

Violent men unknown to her broke in and entered her life.

The aftershock of a trauma doesn’t fade like the memory of a normal happening.

I love neighborhoods where the mix of time periods suggests a history of one-upmanship.

There’s a thrill to ... realizing a connection others have missed.

I'll Be Gone in the Dark: One Woman's Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer