It’s when I find it, stashed away in an inaccessible corner of the attic, the box containing my mutilated dolls, that my world tilts. How could I not have seen it? The dolls’ eyes, in pairs and alone, stare as if to ask: Don’t you remember the manic look on his face when he went at us with his knives?
I bring in the box. It takes but a glance for everyone to agree – same MO. Huge step towards identifying the serial killer.
When they ask me where I found the evidence, I cannot raise my voice above a whisper.