Excerpt of Killer Story by Matt Witten

PROLOGUE

I like to think of you the way you were the summer night we first met, before you became the most loved and hated teenage girl in America. Long before the Murder of the Century changed both our lives forever.

Your mom didn’t want you taking an Uber, so I picked you up at the airport with my “Olivia Anderson” sign. Your big blue eyes lit up when you saw me. You were pudgy then, and so earnest! In the vertical lines creasing your forehead whenever you asked a question, in the slight quavering at the end of your sentences, I always felt you were searching for something, some truth just out of your reach. As if life confused you.

Of course it did—you were fourteen!

We put your purple suitcases plastered with Taylor Swift stickers in the back of the UCLA van, and I drove you to campus. I asked, “So what would you like to work on at journalism boot camp?”

You answered, “I want to write an article about what to do when you find a wounded bird or animal.”

When I think of you, that’s the girl I remember.

Before you changed.

I was a college senior then, majoring in journalism and working as a camp counselor to pay the bills. I tried to treat all the kids the same, but let’s face it, you were my favorite. During morning workshops, you would sit in the front row with those wide open eyes tracking my every move. After class, you’d follow me to the cafeteria like a puppy, asking heartfelt questions along the way.

Then came that day in mid-August. We were walking from the cafeteria back to class. “Whether you write for the Washington Post or your high school newspaper,” I was saying, “you’re an ambassador for the truth. It’s a sacred duty.”

As we cut through the sculpture garden, you gazed up at me and asked, “So what kind of like, career, does a journalist have?”

I couldn’t help smiling at how serious you looked. “Well, I’m only twenty-one. I don’t really know yet.”

Then I gave you a longer answer. “Most people start at a small-town paper for a year or two. Then you go to a bigger city, and hopefully one day you go on to a major market. My dream is to be an investigative crime reporter for the New York Times.”

You clapped your hand to your mouth. “Oh my God, Petra, I can totally see you on CNN.”

I smiled again. “Me too.” As we walked up the steps to the classroom building, I launched into The Talk. “Of course, most reporters never make it to the Times. The business is crazy now, with so many newspapers laying people off.” I always felt it was my responsibility to warn campers about the obstacles they’d face. It was a fine line, because I didn’t want to discourage you guys too much either.

With you, I didn’t have to worry. You said, “Basically, I want to do good in the world, and also be famous.”

I laughed. Your eyes grew round with embarrassment. “Did that sound dumb?”

“No, it’s perfect. It’s what we all want.”

You brightened up, and then your phone rang. “I should get that. It’s my stepdad,” you said apologetically. You had told me about him; he was the consul general from Sweden. Into the phone you said, “Hi, Dad.”

I was about to head inside, but then you said, “Is she okay?”

You started taking quick, shallow breaths. By the time you got off the phone, your whole body was shaking. I took you in my arms and held you, your tears landing on my shoulders.