Imagine putting your toddler son to sleep, then waking up in the morning to find him missing from his bed. The baby monitor conveniently ran out of batteries a couple of days ago, and there is no evidence of a break-in besides an open window and a footprint outside. The police found his stuffed animal near a marsh. All the evidence points to the suspicion that it was an insider job. You feel like something is off. Something is missing from your memories. Something important. Something about yourself that could change the trajectory of the case.  Continue reading “Stacy Willingham, All the Dangerous Things” →