Oh, the Shark Bay has such teeth dear, and he shows them pearly wine.

Just a dark night has only Keith Bay, so there's never a trace, never a trace of rain.

We're back in the foothills of Eastern Tennessee. A meeting is happening for the first time in about 30 years.

Between a woman who shot her husband, and the niece of the man who died.

After the death of Verne Stordock in 1970, his wife Suzanne and his niece Dorothy met just one more time in a mental institution.

Eventually they drifted apart.

They didn't see each other again until they met at a farm in Tennessee.

In Suzanne's small bedroom, located in her daughter's house. Dorothy says she entered the room of a woman whose actions had consumed her for the last year and sort of for decades.

The room was cluttered with furniture and knick-knacks. It was small, maybe 10 by 12. A wheelchair was folded up behind the door.

Suzanne sat up on a single bed, a wooden one, which seemed to have an adjustable mattress or maybe a lot of pillows.

There was a room divider folded up also. I remember Suzanne's long blonde hair, not much grey.

She was sitting up on pillows, wearing a pink robe, tucked in under a chanille bedspread.

And I remembered her green eyes.

I came into the room and there was a small dog, brown and white, wavy fur, jumped all over me.

The dog's name was Holstein.

It felt strangely familiar. I knew her so well when I was a child and in college, but I hadn't seen her for decades.

And yet I was filled with anxiety because here was the woman who had confessed to murdering my uncle.

What do I say?

I looked around, I saw a few large books. Every surface had some white lace doggies on it, the kind my grandma used to crochet.

All around me were pictures of Suzanne with an older man.

That man was Suzanne's fifth and final husband. His name was Paul.

Suzanne had nicknames for all her husbands. She called him the keeper.

...