MFM Minisodes 437

This is exactly right.

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Hello, and welcome to my favorite murder.

This is the mini sode.

Read you your stories.

You sent us emails.

We're going to read them out loud.

We got them all.

We get every single email.

19 billion sold.

And counting.

You just steal McDonald's email rates.

Do you want to go first?

Sure.

Let me see.

That always means I'm going last, and so I want to have a strong last.

Oh, okay.

You know what I mean?

Who has the best last?

My last one's about snails, so let's do it.

Okay.

What?

You have a good last.

I saw that.

Mine's about slugs.

So let's just see.

Let's just see.

Okay.

This is called A Baby, a Gas Gas Station, and a Murder.

How I Ended Up in the Middle of a Hometown Homicide.

Oh, shit.

Hey, Karen at Georgia, a longtime fan of the show.

Thank you both for making true crime feel like a hilarious therapy session with your equally morbid best friends.

I finally decided to send in my story, and let's just say it's got babysitting, betrayal, and bloodshed.

When I was in my 20s, I was working at a gas station in a busy part of the city.

I had a handful of regulars that I saw almost every day, and one of them was a sweet young couple who had just had a baby.

They were friendly, a little frazzled, new parents after all, but always kind.

One night, the young new mom came in alone with the baby and asked if I could watch him for a few minutes while she ran home to grab diapers she forgot.

The gas station clerk.

Sorry, so you're going to stop off at the gas station, not bring your baby all the way home with you.

Right, but also like gas stations usually have diapers in the gas station too, right?

I didn't even think about that just.

There's all kinds of things at the gas station, but not child care.

Yeah, lots of red flags here.

She said she'd lived just down the street and would be faster solo.

So I said, sure, because nothing says qualified babysitter, like a minimum wage and a name tag.

She came back a little while later, asked to use the phone, made a phone call, and not long after, someone picked her and the baby up.

Seemed like a weird blip in my shift, but no big deal until the next day when I was brought in for questioning in a murder investigation.

Turns out when she went back home after leaving her baby girl with me at the gas station, they had gotten into an argument that escalated quickly when she found out he had taken a gay lover.

She ended up stabbing him to death while I was unknowingly watching her baby like some clueless accomplice with a slurpee machine in the background.

I'll ask my questions after.

I mean, I might not have the answers.

Was it premeditated?

Was that the plan?

Like, this is my alibis.

Why would you leave your baby with the gas station clerk?

No offense.

She turned herself in the morning after the murder, which is why the detectives were questioning me about her behavior, which for the record was eerily calm.

She later pleaded guilty to third-degree murder and was sentenced to 16 years.

Needless to say, I was completely shocked.

It was one of the wildest moments of my life.

And now, I get to say, I was unknowingly part of a murder timeline.

Stay sexy and remember, red flags don't always wave.

Sometimes they hand you a baby.

Oh,

Leslie, she, her.

Leslie, nice one.

News button there, yeah.

And sorry you had to take the friendly fire from me, but it scares me so much, that idea where it's like people, and it's been said a thousand times, so it's like you don't have to have a license to have a child.

Right.

What parent in the world is like, you know, I'm just go ahead and hold this baby first.

I've come in here a lot of days before and for multiple minutes at a time.

It's the lady with the baby at the gas station.

Yeah, this has got to be cool.

All right.

Well, kind of related, the subject line of this email is a personal latchkey kid I survived.

Hi, friends.

In the early summer of 1989, I was seven years years old and lived in Lenexa, Kansas, a suburb of Kansas City, notorious for absolutely nothing.

I lived with my mom and her best friend, both of whom were pretty, young, and outgoing.

In parentheses, it says foreshadowing ETC.

My parents were very recently divorced, and my older sister was in her first or second round of rehab, all around fun times for all.

So I was left home alone every day in our shitty apartment complex to take care of myself.

Moment of silence for the Latchkey kids and the trauma they endured unknowingly by themselves, never really processed until they wrote their book with their podcast partner.

Called Stay Sex and Don't Get Murder.

Amen.

And amen.

And then my father said, How were you a Latchkey kid?

They just live in Chicago.

Wait, what?

Like, they just like Latchkey kids only live in Chicago.

They only live in Chicago.

I thought you were going to say, you weren't a Latchkey kid.

We didn't lock the door.

That is literally true.

So it says, one morning, I was eating government cereal and watching Three's Company.

and watching Three's Company.

This is everyone's life.

When I heard a knock on the door, my mom had told me repeatedly that if someone were to come to the door to pretend I was not there and not to answer it, all caps no matter what.

I figured whoever it was would leave, so I just kept watching the show and ignored it, except the knocking didn't stop.

It got louder and more insistent, and my seven-year-old brain registered that something was very wrong.

As the knocking increased and the doorknob started to rattle, I remember thinking that I should leave the TV on and not turn down the volume, otherwise they would know I was inside.

Smart.

I set my cereal bowl down and silently tiptoed towards the front door, shaking.

It's at this moment that the knocking escalated to banging and a man started yelling, open the fucking door.

I know you're in there.

I can hear you.

Oh my God.

And then it just says, holy fucking shit, I know.

I had a little stool next to the door, so I stepped up on it and pressed my eye to the peephole and immediately saw an an eyeball staring back at me.

I jumped down, noped the fuck right out of there to my bedroom in the back and called my mom at work.

Seven years old.

Jesus Christ.

Okay.

When I told her what was going on, she told me she was on her way and to hang up and call 911.

The whole time, the man is still banging on my door, shaking it and rattling the handle, screaming expletives at me.

The dispatcher that answered my phone call calmly told me to lock my bedroom door, to stay on the phone, and that the police were on the way.

In about five to ten minutes, the police arrived.

The dispatcher said they had the man, and it was okay to unlock the door.

Oh my gosh.

When I did, I saw a man sporting a heinous mullet surrounded by officers at the foot of the stairs.

The cops came in and waited with me for my mom to get there.

They said the guy claimed he was there to paint the apartment, and he just, quote, had the wrong unit number.

I immediately told the police that the man was lying because the unit numbers were very large and located just above the people that he had been looking at me through.

Fuck, seven.

Yes.

My mom arrived minutes afterwards and filed a complaint with the complex.

I got to go to work with her the rest of the week, and we forgot all about it.

About three weeks later, on the morning of June 27th, all over the news was the report of two missing female roommates, brunette and in their mid-20s, that had disappeared from their apartment in the complex across the street.

What?

Christine Rush and Teresa Brown's apartment looked as though they had come home for the evening, started getting ready for bed, and were surprised by someone already hiding in their home.

Oh, no.

The last anyone heard of either women were two phone calls made by Brown to their respective employers on the morning of the 26th, calling in sick for the day.

No one ever spoke to either woman again.

Oh my God.

In the weeks and months that followed, through fingerprint analysis, bank statements, and general stupidity on his part, Richard Grissom, the maintenance worker at the apartment complex we lived in, was the first man in Kansas history to be tried and convicted of murder without any bodies.

Holy shit.

He has never admitted to his guilt nor to the families where the women's remains are.

The only thing he will say to this day is, you'll dig them up.

Oh my God.

And then it says, what a fucking piece of human trash.

Yeah.

I will never forget the day they first identified him as the main suspect.

I was sitting on the crunchy brown carpet of our apartment and I saw that ass clown's face pop up on the TV.

And then in quotes, it says, that's the man, mom.

That's the guy that was pounding on the door.

My mom went white, changed the channel, and we never talked about it again.

Years later, I saw the forensic files on this case, and I had a realization.

That man was not trying to get me.

My mom and her roommate looked eerily similar to his victims.

Both sets of women were beautiful, young, outgoing brunettes who lived together.

So that's my story.

Richard Grissom is rotting away forever with no chance of parole, and I am alive and well.

Thank you for being the voices in my ear for years and a happy distraction during this shitstorm.

Yours in murder and anxiety, Jillian.

Oh my God, Jillian.

Like, yes, he was going after these women, but if he had opened the door and you had been there, like you were just in the way, that's just,

he would have done whatever.

And just that like moment of like quietly putting down her cereal bowl and tiptoeing to the door.

Definitely done that.

Yes.

Like those weird moments of like, well, I guess I'm going to make this call because it's, cause it's just me to figure this plan out.

Cause I'm seven and I'm alone.

Jillian.

Oh, Jillian.

Jillian.

There's more to San Francisco with the Chronicle.

More to experience and to explore.

Knowing San Francisco is our passion.

Discover more at sfchronicle.com.

Hey, Oakland, California.

My favorite murder is back on tour.

Join us at the Paramount Theater on Thursday, October 2nd.

Don't wait.

The Friday, October 3rd show is already sold out.

Head to myfavoritemurder.com to buy tickets and your VIP package while supplies last.

Bye-bye.

Okay, this is called Birthday Party at a Mormon Prophet's House.

Crazy.

We've never gotten one of these before.

No.

Hi, ladies.

Fun little ghosty story for you.

I worked as a birthday hostess at the historic Lion House in Salt Lake City, Utah, all through high school.

That's right.

I dressed as a Mormon pioneer and threw children's birthday parties in an old pioneer house complete with taffy pulling, a boring ass tour of the house, and a rousing game of button, button, who's got the button?

Do you know it?

Of course.

I've never heard of it in my life.

It's such a 70s Montessori.

It's just basically like someone's holding a button and you have to guess who's got it in their hand.

Oh my God.

And it says, and hide the thimble.

Oh, that's the other game.

Button, button, who's got the button, and hide the thimble.

The birthday kid is also gifted a scary porcelain doll.

No, I'm not making this up.

Oh, shit.

Button, button.

Who's got the button?

All the games are sewing-based because they actually want those women over at the sewing table making some clothes.

A little history about the house before I tell you about the scariest 10 minutes of my life.

The Lion House is located in the heart of Salt Lake City and is the historic home of the former Mormon prophet Brigham Young.

Brigham Young.

Brigham.

Feel free to Google him.

He was a real piece of shit.

Anyway, at one point, the house was home to about a dozen of his wives and 30-plus children.

Most of the rooms are now used for wedding receptions, high school reunions, and it's a huge Mormon tradition for kids to celebrate their eighth birthday at the Lion House.

What a racket.

I mean, I wonder if it's like some sort of confirmation age or like this.

Yeah, maybe.

In the house, you will find a frame piece of art that depicts flowers embroidered using Brigham Young's wives' actual hair.

Pretty.

Yeah.

Wooden chairs that were carved custom to fit each wife's butt.

Great.

What?

I'd love it.

I want one of those.

And lots of other treasures that were original to the home.

Anyway, when I was 17, I was working at a wedding reception late one night.

What a fun job for a teenager, right?

A wedding reception where you're dressed like an old-style Mormon pioneer.

But there's no like, you can't sneak the rest of anyone's glass of champagne because there's no alcohol.

You can smoke a cigarette.

Aren't they allowed to smoke cigarettes?

I don't know.

Not the women, probably.

That's Scientology.

I'm so sorry.

Not the women.

And I was assigned to close.

Mostly that just means take garbages out, run the dishwasher, etc.

The worst part, however, was turning off the lights at the end of the night and hauling ass out of the house.

I'm sure you can imagine the super creepy portraits and mirrors that are all over the place.

On this particular night, I decided I would turn off all the lights first.

You know, get the scary part over and then do the dishes alone in the kitchen of a pitch black, definitely haunted pioneer house.

It'd be candlelight or something, right?

Maybe it's like you turn the lights off in the entire house, but the kitchen light is on, or like in the ballroom or whatever.

Maybe, but the idea of getting the scary part done first, the scariness is the darkness.

So you're not getting it done if you go back into it and hang out.

Yeah, the logic doesn't logic.

I just would love to discuss the logic of this decision.

Her name's Sarah.

Sarah?

Okay.

It made total sense at the time, I swear.

She was 17.

Obviously, I was terrified of every tiny noise I heard, but by the time I was done, most of the jumpiness had worn off and I had let my guard down.

As I hung up my pioneer pinafore, turned off the kitchen light, and waited for the elevator to take me to the parking garage, I heard footsteps above me.

I froze.

I just stood there alone in a scary, pitch-dark house and listened for a good 10 minutes as the footsteps moved from room to room above me, occasionally rustling the curtains, softly opening and closing cupboards, and slowly worked their way down the stairs towards me.

I backed myself up against a wall and squeezed my eyes shut with tears streaming down my face.

I was positive the ghost of Brother Brigham was coming to drag me to Mormon hell.

Then I heard a man's voice say, Um, you good?

What?

I opened my eyes to see a security guard standing in front of me.

Turns out that there are several security guards who would come in after we turned the lights off to double check the house before locking up.

Security guard, she's crying, she's crying and has her eyes.

And she's like, oh my God.

And it's like, are you good?

Bam?

No, I'm a scene from a horror movie.

I'm what happens right before the girl gets killed in like a horror ghost security guard.

No, I'm not okay.

Help out.

You're part of this.

Why they didn't just turn off the freaking lights themselves is beyond me.

So when I turned off the lights early, he came in to make his rounds and scared the pioneer heritage right out of me.

Stay sexy and don't pee in your pioneer pinafore when a prophet ghost stalks you.

Yeah.

Sarah, she, her.

Easy for you to say, Sarah.

I would have lost my motherfucking shit.

Well, I mean, you were.

Your face was terrified just now.

Well, also, because I started imagining, you know, like kind of like spirit haunted mansion where, yeah, just some white, gauzy.

see-through beings coming down the stairs.

Yeah, definitely white.

And then it's just some blonde dude in a big security jacket, like, you good?

Are you okay?

Are you good sobbing?

Oh, my God.

Okay, that was a good one.

All right.

The subject line of this email is the baboons will not be deterred.

Hi, period.

One summer, I joined my best friend and her family for a day trip to Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey.

New Jersey is in and of itself an amusement park, but I don't need to tell you.

Of course, no, say no more.

This Six Flags has a safari component, which in retrospect is a bad idea on pretty much every level.

They may have increased safety precautions and things since my visit, but this was the 90s, during which the lingering effects of the fuck around and find out 80s were still deeply felt.

God, God, I love a well-written email.

That was good.

My mom's friend Diane was driving us through the safari in her hatchback.

We saw giraffes and rhinos and maybe some zebras.

It was really delightful.

Then the sky seemed to darken and a hush fell over the expanse.

No.

The expanse of the hatchback.

I looked up and saw a single baboon crusting the hill next to our car, a sentinel.

In a matter of seconds, a veritable troop of baboons.

And then in parentheses, it says, the official word for a group of baboons, by the way, crested the hill.

I laughed nervously, but reasoned that they wouldn't and couldn't do much damage to us and our sturdy Chevy.

What follows are a series of scenes that will stay with me forever.

First, a bright red baboon ass sliding across the windshield.

Next, a baboon tearing off the car's license plate and scurrying over the hill never to return.

Oh my gosh, like, I got mine.

It's for the clubhouse.

Then a determined pair of baboons excising the passenger side mirror from its socket.

When the initial assault seemed calm, Diana asked me, a child, to go and retrieve the mirror the baboons had stolen.

Okay, little child, get out.

Go fight that baboon.

I can't just buy another one of those mirrors.

We could see it lying broken in the dust a few feet from the bumper.

Maybe she thought that my small size would make me nimble enough to dodge the baboons, or that I myself had a baboon vibe that the other baboons might appreciate.

Surprisingly, I didn't question her request.

I gingerly opened my car door, peering to my right and left.

I seized a baboon-free moment and dashed back to the mirror.

Suddenly, one of the determined ones skidded up into the.

Oh my God, you could have asked one of the employees at the safari to get the mirror and not a literal child.

The value of children was less than a side mirror of a Chevy hatchback

in this era.

God, this is such a perfectly written email.

I just love it.

Okay.

Suddenly, one of the more determined ones skidded into view, hovering protectively over the mirror.

We sized each other up, and I took an experimental step forward.

The baboon called my bluff and shuffled closer, at which point I thought, wait, what the fuck?

And sped back into the car.

Needless to say, Diane had to drive home without the benefit of her blind spot mirror, although all of the children in her charge survived.

And then it just says, Yes, this really happened.

Stay sexy and don't play chicken with baboons, Emily.

Face to face with a baboon.

Honey, jump out.

Get into the troop there.

You're the littlest one.

You're the same size.

Go baboon it up.

I don't think you're a grab that mirror away from a baboon.

Betrayal Weekly is back for season two with brand new stories.

The detective comes driving up fast and just like screeches right in the parking lot.

I swear I'm not crazy, but I think he poisoned me.

I feel trapped.

My breathing changes.

More money, more money, more money.

And I went white.

I realize, wow, like he is not a mentor.

He's pretty much a monster.

New stories, new voices, and shocking manipulations.

This didn't just happen to me.

It happened to hundreds of other people.

But these aren't just stories of destruction.

They're stories of survival, of people picking up the pieces and daring to tell the truth.

I'm going to tell my story, and I'm going to hold my head up.

Listen to Betrayal Weekly on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

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Okay, Okay, here we go.

I'm not going to tell you the title.

It's about snails, though.

Hey, y'all, I didn't send this story in earlier because I figured you would be inundated with snail mail, ha ha ha, after episode 470.

They wrote, ha ha ha.

Snail mail?

Turns out I was wrong, and perhaps my condition is more unique than I thought.

So here goes.

It was an icy cold night, this will be important later on, in March 2015 when my husband and I went out to dinner with another couple at a she-she local restaurant in Norfolk, Virginia.

This night, I was feeling adventurous and ordered the Escargot swimming in butter and garlic.

It says, not actually swimming, that would be snail tartare and too hot cuisine even for me.

But I digress.

We all had the chance to enjoy the delicate little buggers, very tasty, and leave it to me to sop up every last bit of snail juice and garlic butter with the hot, crusty table bread.

I like the bread part.

Oh my God.

Fast forward about 30 minutes later, when we skedaddle home to pay the babysitter and put our kids to bed.

My oldest daughter and I were both singing in a local production of Mulan Jr., and we needed to get a good night's rest before starting tech week.

That's cool.

Yeah.

Yeah.

While my husband herded the kids into the bathroom upstairs to brush their teeth and go to sleep, I got ready for bed in the downstairs bathroom.

I noticed fairly quickly that my throat was itching and my lungs were getting tight.

I immediately assumed that I had caught a bug somehow and was likely catching a cold right before our busiest week, of course.

But in no time flap, my throat had begun to close up on me and I could barely croak out for help.

I banged on the wall repeatedly to get my husband's attention.

He came flying down the stairs, shushing me,

upset that I might excite the kids as they were trying to go to sleep.

He was horrified to find me in the bathroom, bug-eyed, clutching my throat and gasping.

This beautiful, amazing, steady-as-a-rock husband of mine grabbed me in a bottle of Benadryl and rushed us outside to the front porch in the freezing cold, where he shoved three Benadryl down my throat and ordered me to sit on a rocking chair.

He calmly explained that I had an anaphylactic reaction to something I ate and that the cold air and medicine would soon allow me to breathe again.

Sure enough, within the hour, I was relatively back to normal, albeit blue from the cold.

The next day, I went to my doctor who ordered a series of tests to determine what the cause of my reaction might have been.

I've suffered from a lot of allergies in my time, most of them environmental, but nothing like this and nothing ever food related.

Ultimately, my doctor surmised that I suffer from a snail allergy

and that this attack was a warning: the next time I eat a snail, it might could kill me.

She prescribed me an EpiPen, which all of my family and friends have now learned to use just in case.

How do you accidentally eat snails when the people?

Someone's putting snails in your sandwich.

Shit.

The weirdos even fight over who gets to stab me if someone accidentally slips snails into my meal.

And you can only imagine the looks that I get at restaurants when the wait staff asks if anyone at the table has any food allergies, the kitchen needs to be aware of.

Good news.

She can't use the serum either.

No, my God.

Then her skin starts choking out here.

Oh my God.

Clogging.

The good news is I was able to perform in the show with no lasting vocal trauma, and now my children have a legit reason never to try eating snails.

It might be hereditary after all.

Love y'all lots.

Keep doing what you're doing one day at a time.

This world needs your voices.

Stay sexy and leave the snails to the French.

Kristen B.

She, her.

I'm so glad you're still here with us.

Thank God.

Also, what's your husband do for a living that he was able to see his wife choking and absolutely solve that problem?

Immediately.

Just know, was he lying about being outside helping and being cold, having it be a cold helping?

Does that work?

I mean, I guess it did.

It should.

But who is that guy?

I don't know.

Impressive.

Sorry, but Kristen.

But your husband upstaged you in this email.

Okay, so I think you're going to like this one.

The subject line is safe harbor success story.

Okay.

It starts, entire MFM crew.

After hours of trying to come up with a jazzy introduction with no luck, I can safely say I will no longer be critiquing other fans who write in.

I will say how thankful I am for the countless hours of laughter and companionship Karen and Georgia have provided.

I love reading about us in the third person.

I can remember the moment I heard your podcast for the first time.

Picture it.

2019, my garage in Nebraska, gearing up to mow the lawn and needing a good listen.

God, I love that so much.

What are you even doing right now?

MFM's logo stood out in the list of graphics.

Kudos to the design team.

The design team named Georgia Hardstark.

So I clicked play and off I started.

It's ironic that while mowing just last week, I listened to episode 476, Sprinkles and Googly Eyes, and finally had my reason to write in.

Karen told the story of Toby Young, the founder of Safe Harbor Prison Dogs.

Oh, yeah.

We adopted our dog Bruski from Safe Harbor back in 2014.

Holy shit.

Bruski's mom came into the program pregnant, so when she had her litter, we took home our beloved lab Greyhound mix.

Bruski came to us vaccinated, microchipped, and trained by prisoners to sit and stay.

His adoption packet even included pictures and a letter from one of the trainers.

Those trainers love those dogs.

Totally, totally.

Probably more than anybody.

Yeah.

We thought it was such a great way to allow meaningful rehabilitation while also finding homes for dogs.

During the pandemic, I was fortunate to work from home and took daily walks with Bruski.

It was my way to feel more normal during crazy times, less because of the virus itself, but more because of society's batshit response to COVID and masking.

I mean.

Unfortunately, Bruski passed away in 2024 due to an inoperable tumor.

He was the perfect dog and will always have a special place in our family's hearts.

I miss our walks together and his presence in our home, but I still find his dog hair in places and it makes me smile.

Stay sexy and always adopt, even if the founder orchestrated a prison escape, Jared.

And look at beautiful Brucey.

That is a gorgeous dog.

Look at that puppy.

And I get a baby.

Boy.

Lab Greyhound mix.

That's a good mix.

That's a great.

That's a loyal dog.

Oh, my God.

You said it was about slugs.

You lied.

I did.

That was my comparable comedy.

choice that I made.

Got it.

Guys, write us your stories, please.

Tell us where you got your dog.

Yeah.

What a perfect, what's it called?

Bucket?

No, like that.

They got the dog from a story that you did about a woman who did prison escape with a dog.

It's perfect.

Yes.

We need those.

This is, if you can connect your pet to a story we tell on the main episode.

Totally.

Let us know.

Let us know.

My favorite murder at Gmail.

Thank you guys for listening.

And stay sexy.

And don't get murdered.

Elvis, do you want a cookie?

This has been an exactly right production.

Our senior producers are Alejandra Keck and Molly Smith.

Our editor is Aristotle Aceveda.

This episode was mixed by Liana Spolachi.

Email your hometowns to myfavorite murder at gmail.com.

And follow the show on Instagram at MyFavoriteMurder.

Listen to MyFavorate Murder on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

And now you can watch us on Exactly Right's YouTube page.

And while you're there, please like and subscribe.

Goodbye.

Bye-bye.

Betrayal Weekly is back for season two with brand new stories.

The detective comes driving up fast and just like screeches right in the parking lot.

I swear I'm not crazy, but I think he poisoned me.

I feel trapped.

My breathing changes.

I realize, wow, like he is not a mentor.

He's pretty much a monster.

But these aren't just stories of destruction.

They're stories of survival.

I'm going to tell my story and I'm going to hold my head up.

Listen to Betrayal Weekly on on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

I just think the process and the journey is so delicious.

That's where all the good stuff is.

You just can't live and die by the end result.

That's comedian Phoebe Robinson.

And yeah, those are the kinds of gems you'll only hear on my podcast, The Bright Side.

I'm your host, Simone Boyce.

I'm talking to the brightest minds in entertainment, health, wellness, and pop culture.

And every week, we're going places in our communities, our careers, and ourselves.

So join me every Monday and let's find the bright side together.

Listen to the bright side on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

I knew I wanted to obey and submit, but I didn't fully grasp for the rest of my life what that meant.

For my heart podcasts and Rococo Punch, this is the turning, River Road.

In the woods of Minnesota, a cult leader married himself to 10 girls and forced them into a secret life of abuse.

But in 2014, the youngest escaped.

Listen to The Turning River Road on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.