Every Friday at 6 p.m. my daughter called me without fail, and the one week my phone stayed silent I drove to her house and heard a sound from upstairs that turned our quiet Tennessee life into something I still can’t fully talk about

laundry, lived her life—and where that life had been taken.

“Find them,” I said.

Carter’s jaw tightened.

“We will. And when we do, they’ll answer for every second of what they did to your daughter.”

Five weeks. Five weeks of investigation, dead ends, and sleepless nights. Five weeks of Amelia asking when we could have a funeral for her mother. Five weeks continue reading …