Kia ora, my beautifully morbid lot, pull your black wool cape a little tighter, because tonight we’re headed somewhere dark. Not Rotorua-at-midnight dark. Not Wellington-in-winter dark. We’re talking Mulholland Drive in November 1969 dark.  the kind of dark that swallows a nineteen-year-old girl whole and spits out only silence.

Continue reading “The Murder of Reet Jurvetson”