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I am reading The Burning by Jane Casey. The story of woman detective after a serial killer. I have not read a book like this in more than 20 years, and I still remember the exact moment, the exact night, I knew I could no longer read books like this. I was in my bed in my apartment under a flowered navy blue bedspread. It was after midnight. The lamp beside me cast a round shadow on the ceiling above as I read the true crime story of Jeffrey MacDonald murdering his family. I remember thinking, ‘what dad butchers his entire family?” I remember setting Fatal Vision down, forever unfinished, and turning out the light. And sometime that following week, I buried that book in the bottom of my trash and took the trash out. I could not read it, but even more I could not even have the story of this man in my house.
