Page 56 of By the Time You Read This

Depending on how big the stone—and considering we’re talking about the victims of sadistic serial killers, that stone is pretty big—the impact can have devastating effects across the entirety of this metaphorical lake.

Our obsession with serial killers isn’t new, or even all that disturbing. As highly social animals, it makes sense that we’re intrigued by the abnormal. But in our current media environment, that obsession can turn into real harm.

The serial killer you’re obsessed with is likely either dead or in jail. And it’s too late to save their victims. But the loved ones? They’re out there in the world, and youdohave some responsibility to treat them with respect if you’re engaging with their stories.

This isn’t the junk food of culture, something to consume in a mindless haze.

I’m not here to tell you participating in true crime culture is bad or dangerous or wrong. All I’m asking is that you participate in it thoughtfully.

So, how do you do that?

Number One, ask yourself, whose stories are you listening to? Are they all some version of the Missing White Woman Syndrome? If so, is there a way you can branch out to listen to the stories of people from marginalized groups who have become victims, whose murders far fewer people are interested in solving?

Number Two, how much are the hosts commoditizing the murders? Are they selling merchandise? Do they have catchphrases? Are they constantly trying to get you to subscribe? Things of that nature are dehumanizing to the victim and their families.

Number Three, how are you participating in the culture? Are you becoming an armchair sleuth? Are you emailing the victims’ families, or sending mobs after them because of your latest theory? Are you advocating for more awareness when people of color go missing, and not just young white girls?

What are the lines not to cross? I don’t have the answers for you.

I’m not here to scold you, but rather present a reminder to myself as well.

Don’t yourself become another rock dropped into that lake where people are trying not to drown.

Chapter Eighteen

Raisa

Day Two

Raisa tried to make the puzzle pieces fit. She tried to make them fit as she called another car to come get her from campus, and she tried to make them fit on the ride back to the hotel. She tried to make them fit as she finally, finally, finally scrubbed herself completely clean of Kilkenny’s blood.

And she couldn’t.

So she finally returned Maeve St. Ivany’s calls.

“Where do you live?” Raisa asked. “Send me the address.”

St. Ivany hung up, but a second later, Raisa’s phone vibrated with a text.

Raisa grabbed Kilkenny’s keys from the adjoining room, slung her bag over her shoulder, and then headed for the door.

The house turned out to be one not unlike Raisa’s own. It was small but cute and had a view of the harbor.

St. Ivany was waiting for her when she pulled up. “I am busy, you know.”

Raisa glanced at the time. It was just after 11:00 p.m.

“Yeah, last time I got a full night’s sleep was before Emily Logan was stabbed to death.” St. Ivany turned, leading her back into the house. The living room was all bland beige walls and off-white furniture. There weren’t any personal touches Raisa could see. It reminded Raisa of her apartment in Tacoma, the one she’d used as essentially a mailing address before she got her bungalow. Settling in had felt like too much work.

More notably, though, the room was messy. Papers were strewn everywhere, as were take-out containers and empty coffee mugs. A pile of clothes spilled off a chair and onto the floor, and the air was stale, smelling vaguely of sweat and artificial mango—the latter probably being St. Ivany’s attempt to cover up the fact that she hadn’t cleaned in at least two weeks.

“Yeah, it’s not pretty,” St. Ivany said. “Coffee or no?”

“Yeah, the strong stuff,” Raisa said, as she lowered herself into the only clean chair. It was probably the one St. Ivany had been using, but Raisa didn’t care.

Five minutes later, they both had their mugs and were eyeing each other, St. Ivany just as wary as Raisa was, clearly.

“I found a connection between Emily Logan and Lindsey Cousins,” Raisa said, and then filled St. Ivany in on the last couple of hours.

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