Lemonade.

In the wake of Jordan Rasmussen's murder, his older sister Leslie was so unmoored by her grief that sometimes she didn't even

recognize herself. This is embarrassing to say. This is really embarrassing. It

maybe shows part of my character I don't want to acknowledge, but sometimes

as I was reading the newspaper, I would look at an obituary and I think, oh, they're hurting too. I'm not just the only one that's hurting.

Instead of healing her wounds, it seemed like time was turning that hurt into something harder.

Her suffering was evolving into rage. And even though

she'd studied sociology and understood these feelings were a normal part of grief, she was

ashamed.

That was something that I didn't want to admit at all.

I was furious at myself for thinking that I was looking at someone else being miserable,

but it's natural.

Leslie desperately wanted to move on, but she felt bound to her brother's

killer in ways she just couldn't seem to escape.

Even her married name, Moore, became a tether, despite

there being no relation. But when she struggled with the violence of her brother's

death, with the way he'd malign Jordan's character, she told herself, there

was one consolation. Michael Moore was suffering too. He had to be, isolated in prison, no hope of a normal life.

This toxic stew roiled in her gut constantly.

Most of the time, she kept it hidden, a slow simmer on a back burner. But there were times when it boiled over, like the

time she was driving to a church event one evening. She was thinking about her plans

for the night until she saw it. Just off the west side of the interstate, the network

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