The afternoon of August 8, 1965, was warm and pleasant. Shirley went upstairs to take her customary nap after lunch. Several hours later, Stanley tried to rouse her and found that he could not. In fear, he called out for Sarah. “I can’t wake your mother,” he said in a tone she had never heard before. Madly, he held a mirror in front of Shirley’s nose and mouth to see if it would fog. “Dad, I think she’s dead,” Sarah told him.
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