He entered the world already erased, filed away as “Unknown,” as if his existence were an error to be corrected. In that house of half-truths, he learned that reality could be edited, that people could be rearranged into roles: sister as mother, grandparents as parents, love as surveillance. The small cruelties—silent judgments, rigid expectations, the suffocating need to appear perfect—taught him that what mattered most wasn’t who you were, but what others believed about you.

So he became a master of belief. He studied charm like a language, mirroring what people wanted to see until they mistook his reflection for safety. A helpful boyfriend. A reassuring voice on the hotline. A stranger you’d accept a ride from because danger never looked so clean. When the truth finally surfaced and the name Ted Bundy turned to ash in the public imagination, the real horror wasn’t only what he did—it was how easy it had been for him to hide in plain sight.