Page 1 of The Woods

KILLING THEIR OWN EPISODE 23 03/15/2022

Cleo: Hey, true-crime fans, it’s Cleo Watson here, your host of Killing Their Own. A podcast where we dive deep into the unspeakable—the most horrific crime of all—when family kills family. What drives a husband to kill his pregnant wife, a mother to kill her children, or a son or daughter to kill their parents? How does that familial bond break down, and how does a person betray the safe haven of home? Those are the questions that drive this podcast. When blood RUNS thicker than water, we’re here to figure out why.

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Cleo: This week on Killing Their Own, and for the next five weeks to come, we will be covering the Justine Gordon case. It’s a big one, folks! It’s neither for the faint of heart nor the squeamish, and it will surely keep you up at night. In May 2019, Justine Gordon killed her entire family—her husband and her two teenage sons—over the course of three days. You’re probably asking: Why did she do it? How did she do it? Was it revenge against her husband, who’d recently had an affair? But then why kill her boys? Was it menopausal rage and undiagnosed mental illness, as the media implied? According to Justine Gordon, it was neither. When asked what caused her to kill her entire family, she said, over and over again: “The woods made me do it.”

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THURSDAY, MAY 18, 2023

Alice

Alice hadn’t been looking for a new house, hadn’t even discussed the possibility of moving with her husband, Geoff, but something about the driveway winding through the woods and the green-golden light slanting through the trees had called to her. It was a complete coincidence that she’d even ended up there, having gotten lost on her way to an appointment. She found herself on a cul-de-sac with a handful of properties, all on large lots, not quite mansions but not far off either—aspiring mansions, she’d thought. The only house that wasn’t in plain sight, it was separated from its neighbors by trees on both sides, like some secret hideaway at the end of the street.

It was the only one with a For Sale sign.

She pulled into the entrance to the driveway and tried to get a glimpse of the house through the brush, but it was so tucked away, so perfectly secluded, that she couldn’t see anything but the trees. Probably a fortune in this neighborhood, and totally out of their budget. Still, just for fun, she’d put the car in park, pulled up the realtor’s website on her phone, and typed in the listing number.

The photos weren’t loading, so the price jumped out at her first. She couldn’t believe how reasonable it was. She moved to the description of the place, imagining some run-down one-bedroom cabin for that amount. The last house on the street that hadn’t been bought by developers.

Three-bedroom Craftsman-style bungalow with fully renovated kitchen and primary suite, located on fifty acres of wooded property. Beautiful inground pool just steps from an expansive back deck, with two additional outbuildings perfect for guests, one fully self-contained with kitchenette and bathroom. Located in a quiet and safe neighborhood. The ideal refuge for you and your family! Contact me today for a viewing.

Alice scrolled through the photos, but only a few interiors loaded so she couldn’t really get a sense of the character or size of the place. She noted a fieldstone fireplace in the den and her heart started to pound. She told herself she was being silly, that they weren’t even in the market for a new house and that she was late for her appointment, but those words echoed through her head—the ideal refuge for you and your family. They held her there, made her dial the number beside the photo of the realtor. A bleach-blond woman in a cream blazer with a wide smile and teeth so white they made Alice run a tongue over her own. She made an appointment to see the place the next day.

It wasn’t until she got home from her meeting pitching pharmaceuticals to the medical staff at the rural clinic that she even looked into the area where the house was located. A little village called Merrymont, with a population of 2,200. An hour and forty-five minutes from where they lived in the city, in a tall, cramped, four-bedroom semi-attached with a backyard containing a couple of trees that would only ever grow so high and a fence that was shared with neighbors. Where they’d lived for the past eighteen years, since just after the twins, Polly and Lucy, were born. The only house her son, Quinn, had ever known. The house where they’d spent the last year grieving.

At one time it had been her family’s refuge, but not anymore.

Not after the death of Lucy.

Their home had become a daily reminder of the daughter she’d lost. Lucy had died suddenly, in 2022. After the initial shock wore off, they drifted through familiar rooms, recoiling from all the reminders of what they’d lost. The doorframe growth chart in the kitchen—Lucy’s line always half an inch higher than her identical twin sister Polly’s, and several centimeters above her brother Quinn’s, who was fourteen the last time they measured. The unoccupied bedroom, untouched since her death, the door shut tight against its contents—posters on the wall of her favorite bands, shelves lined with her favorite books, a pile of college folders containing applications and the promise of a basketball scholarship, a closet full of clothes accumulated with Christmas and birthday money and minimum-wage paychecks. The slightly sunken corner spot on the sectional in the TV room.

None of them could bring themselves to suggest cleaning out her bedroom, moving her chair from the kitchen table, or sitting in that corner spot to watch TV. They just faced it every day. Until all those reminders began to feel like nicking a fresh scab. How could they heal if they couldn’t leave the wound alone? They had all gone to therapy—group and individual—and it had helped. They wouldn’t have gotten through without it. But maybe now they’d reached the final step: leaving behind the house that had Lucy all over it and moving into one that didn’t. Moving out of the city to what seemed like a whole new land. A fresh start.

These were the thoughts running through Alice’s mind as she scrolled through photos of the village of Merrymont. The main street had quaint-looking boutiques with names like The Apothecary, Gone to Seed, and The Empire Cheese Factory, and restaurants with locally-sourced menus and coffee shops that hosted jazz nights and poetry open mics; even the pizza place claimed to be organic. There was a pristine-looking high school, an old clock tower, and a three-story Carnegie library.

When she was finally able to load photos of the house, they only confirmed her sense that getting lost that day was the hand of fate. Set in a clearing of the forest, it looked like a fairy-tale cottage. The original part of the house was a single-room log cabin with a wide, deep front porch and a fieldstone fireplace; it had been added onto over the years to create one long, sprawling bungalow in the Craftsman style. The result was the perfect mix of rustic and modern. Both sides of the home were lined with large picture windows framing the beautiful, wooded landscape that surrounded it. As far as Alice could tell from the photos, it did indeed look like the perfect refuge for her family, secluded and surrounded by nature, a place where they could heal and begin again—although none of them knew it yet. And she’d keep it a secret until she’d seen the place and knew for sure. No point broaching it for nothing.

That’s why she arrived solo for the showing and is now running her hand across the smooth stone of the eight-foot kitchen island, looking out the back window at the inground pool, which the previous owners had somehow managed to make look like a natural part of the landscape. She’s just spent time in the heart of the house, the living room, constructed of ancient logs and centered around the tall stone fireplace. The primary suite off the living room was renovated at the same time as the kitchen, with natural-fiber carpet, vaulted ceilings and white walls, a good-sized en suite with soaker tub and separate shower. The kitchen, big and bright, has skylights, hardwood floors, dark-gray cabinets, and gold fixtures. Two more bedrooms are located on the other side of the house and are a little outdated but an easy fix.

A screened-in porch at the back of the house runs just over half the entire length of the long, one-story building, the size of two rooms, all with a view of the woods. It’s the woods that have captured Alice’s heart. Fifty acres of them, running alongside the large expanse of lawn and going deep at the back of the property. Tall, ancient white pines stand alongside thick-trunked oak and maple trees with the odd cedar growing in their shadow. It is a true forest.

“I just don’t understand why this place is so cheap,” Alice says to the realtor, Sabrina. “Or why it’s been on the market for so long.” Alice fans herself with the listing pages, but it’s no use. The heat has started moving up her arms and across her chest. The flames will soon lick up her neck, over her scalp, and then engulf her face, until she feels like she’s being burned alive—like a witch on a stake. She can already feel the drip of sweat down her back and the sheen of it across her cheeks.

“Are you okay, dear?” Sabrina asks Alice. “You’re looking very flushed.” The realtor taps her own cheeks, which are so smooth and pale, they look like they’ve been iced in place.

Alice laughs self-consciously. “Oh, I’m fine. Just a hot flash. You know.”

Sabrina shakes her head. “I’ve never had one. I’m only forty-nine.”

Alice turned fifty months ago, and this is her third hot flash to date; she hasn’t had a period in three months. She wants to tell the realtor that it’s only a matter of time, to enjoy her regulated body temperature and cycle while she can, but instead she asks if they might step outside, where it’s cooler.

Sabrina, whose teeth are even whiter in person, smiles and leads the way. Alice finds women like her fascinating. The ones still wearing high heels despite the pain. The “pick me” women with perfect hair and makeup and no hot flashes. Alice feels like they’re a part of some club she’s aged out of, though she’d never gained access in the first place. A club with all the makeup tips better than those on social media that, no matter how hard she tries, Alice cannot seem to master.

For the most part, Alice always looks presentable, hot flashes aside. She’s naturally slim and knows how to choose clothes that accentuate her best features while concealing the parts of her body that age has not been kind to. Her brown hair, worn in a shoulder-length bob, is highlighted just enough to cover the occasional grays that pop up. She wears light makeup to even out her splotchy skin, but not so much that she needs any real talent to apply it. And on those days when she looks especially tired, she has a pair of thick tortoiseshell glasses she throws on that work like a trusty piece of armor. Anything to hide the delicate skin around her eyes. For a fifty-year-old woman she thinks she’s doing okay, she’s just not as shiny or lacquered as the one in front of her.

The realtor leads Alice out the back door to the deck that looks across the yard and into the woods. The air is cool and helps to dry the sweat on her brow and make the moment slightly more bearable. A gentle wind passes over her like a soft caress, but it does nothing to lower Alice’s body temperature, and she resists the urge to cry.