We're in the foothills of eastern Tennessee. Alexis Sedan nudges down an unpaved, twisty road.

A wall of trees surrounds the car. It's like the trees are getting taller.

The signal on the GPS keeps going out. The driver's not from around here. She's passing yellow

streaked mobile homes. On one lot, a scrapyard dozens of rusted out cars piled on top of each

other. Lost in the backwoods, deeper and deeper. And then finally, the car's headlights catch on a

two-story farmhouse ahead. It's a relief to see it.

The car slows and then pulls into the driveway. There's a log cabin on the front of the property.

Two other cars are parked here already. Not new, but they look like they've been taken care of.

The driver, you already know. Her name is Dorothy Marsick, and her uncle Verne's murder almost

half a century earlier brought her to this remote spot. Dorothy checks the address against the one

she had written down. She wonders if she's really in the right place. She's apprehensive,

a little scared as she climbs the stairs to the front door, raised high off the ground. She rings

the doorbell. No answer. So she rings again. And then, like you do, even when it doesn't exactly

make sense. She knocks. Maybe the doorbell didn't work. Maybe knocking will work. So she knocks louder.

Silence. All this way and nothing to show for it. Dorothy's frustrated. On her way back down the

stairs, she sees another door. No doorbell. She knocks there too. It's getting colder out here.

The car is warm. Dorothy gets back in and calls the phone number from the same piece of paper

with the address. She says the call goes straight to voicemail. So Dorothy leaves a message.

It's me, Dorothy. I'm in the driveway. She makes more calls. She talks to her cousin Shannon.

Then she calls a man named David. She thinks he lives around here.

In the dark car, Dorothy doesn't notice the upper door of the house open. A thin woman comes out.

Her hair and a tight bun. She's dressed conservatively. An ankle-length skirt, a starched wipe

...