If there is sin in forgetting, perhaps then that is what I am: a sleeper, having sinned from choosing to forget.

Wednesday, October 14th, 2009. I’m in my room on Albert Street in Augusta Maine, being held hostage. A woman almost a decade my junior has just told me she was raped last night, but for some reason she is directing all her rage at me.

On the fortieth anniversary of the Manson murders, at the exact moment the killers struck, D. R. Haney and a friend stake out the former home of Rosemary and Leno LaBianca, spooked by the presence of a white car drawing steadily, slowly closer.