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Dig great true storytelling? It’s all we do. Subscribe to our newsletter and don’t miss a word of our blockbuster nonfiction. Why does your fucked up mind think without innocence You can call your castle kings about my vehemence Thoughts of me in your fucked up mind makes you perspire Your fucked up brain wants me to retire…. Your fucked up head nos I will win this war Late one humid night in Wichita, Kansas, in June 1977, Ruth Finley, a 47-year-old telephone company employee and mother of two grown sons, was startled by the ringing of her phone. She had just endured a traumatic day: that afternoon her husband Ed had collapsed from an apparent heart attack after working in their back yard. Now Ed lay in a hospital bed as doctors searched for a conclusive diagnosis, while Ruth tried to shake off the unease she felt at the unfamiliar experience of being alone in her house at night.

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