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probably writing a story on violent TV shows inciting murder.
    Another twenty minutes of checking the first few pages of Google results for Toby Benson, and Kendall began to feel as surprised at Benson’s actions as his friends. She’d found no comments about him hating the world or being unhappy; no pictures of him holding a rifle, à la Lee Harvey Oswald before he assassinated President Kennedy; not even an Instagram account picture of him holding as much as a bread knife, let alone an axe.
    It was weird that a guy who looked so normal could do something so abnormal. Kendall was no investigative journalist, but surely there should be something . Maybe it was drugs or a broken relationship? Or was there a crazy switch in people’s heads? And Toby Benson’s crazy switch simply got flicked?
    Now there was an article title: “ The Crazy Switch: How to keep yours turned off?”
    She made a note on the ‘pitch’ pad by her computer. It was stuffed full of ideas and thoughts with potential to become stories.
    Really, though, she was procrastinating, delaying getting out there and talking to someone who’d experienced crazy . She was truly a wuss. Hearing the gory details, and asking the questions surrounding death and violence was probably her worst nightmare.
    “How does it feel to know you came this close to death?”
    “Does this make you appreciate your loved ones?”
    Even thinking about it, the back of her neck suddenly felt clammy.
    Kendall navigated back to The Western’s News page, to find it updated with further information. Now they had a quote from Toby Benson’s sister.
     
    “My brother was the sweetest, kindest man you would ever meet. Our family is shocked and devastated.”
     
    This new article contained pictures of survivors. Beverley Sanderson—mid-forties, shaggy blonde hair, well-groomed eyebrows, and over-pink lipstick—was one of three people whose photo was subtitled “survivor.” Kendall read the entire article, but found no quotes from any of the witnesses.
    Something about the smiling persona of the polished looking Mrs. Sanderson made Kendall think she might be the person to approach, that she might be willing to talk. After years of interviewing people, Kendall had a feel for who was a talker and who wasn’t. Time was the issue. In order to get to these witnesses before a big media outlet pulled out an equally big checkbook, she needed to move.
    Searching through the online phone directory, Kendall immediately found Beverley Sanderson. The listing read B & R. Sanderson . “R,” no doubt being the husband, Roy, who was, also, mentioned below the photo. If this was the same woman—and Kendall was pretty certain it was—she lived only a few blocks away.
    Kendall scribbled down the address, quickly changed her clothes—tracksuit and slippers just didn’t give her the right air—and headed out the door. The address was close enough to walk. She decided not to call first and give the Sandersons a chance to say “no” to an interview. Most interviewees found Kendall’s enthusiastic and easy style relatable. Complete strangers found themselves opening up to her about the most intimate and personal experiences.
    Her stomach filled with stone at the thought of hearing gruesome details. You need this commission . This would also prove to Marcus she was tough, that she’d grown up. She imagined the look of pride on her brother’s face as he read the article.
    Kendall hurried out the door, grabbing her laptop bag and an apple as she did. Today hadn’t started well, but it was getting better by the hour. Even her headache had faded. This massacre was a horrific event, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to pay the rent. Even if that meant dealing with the nightmares that would invariably follow.

Chapter 6

     
     
    O’GRADY STOOD IN THE KITCHEN staring at the pools of dried blood. Trip was out in Café Amaretto’s dining room among the ruins of what had only hours