Main is criss-crossed with an intricate web of side streets and back roads.

We've got little camp paths with two worn grooves of dirt, tall grass sprouting up between the tire

tracks and tickling the underbellys of every car that drives over. There are roads that don't even have names, but you know it by the

granite boulder sitting heavy just a few feet before it, or the red mailbox

that signals it's time to turn,

or a simple tree that looks a little different than the others,

marking your route with more clarity than a GPS ever could.

I still remember the back road routes. than a GPS ever could.

I still remember the back road routes that wind from my parents' house in Central

Maine to the homes of my high school friends.

The shortcuts didn't have street lights or homes flanking either side of the road,

but there was safety and comfort in the familiarity of the route.

I remember turning up a particularly melancholic teenage breakup anthem on the six CD player and rolling the crank windows down and driving along those roads at night like I was in a music video.

And then I'd pull into the driveway, cut the engine, but let the song finish before walking safely into my home.

18-year-old Deborah Dill might have felt that same safety and comfort and

familiarity as she turned onto Whipper Will Road in the early morning hours of

September 16th, 1973.

And maybe she was listening to her own teenage heartbreak anthem after an argument with

her fiance.

Maybe when she saw the headlights in her rearview mirror, she wondered who else would be out on this back road at that hour.

This is the story of a woman's life stolen.

A bizarre confession and imperfect investigation,

...