At 18, I Married a 60-Year-Old Farmer Who Needed Me Seven Times a Day. But What He Truly Craved Was a Chilling Secret.
When I married Walter Grayson, the whole town of Millfield, Iowa, thought I’d lost my mind.
I was eighteen—barely out of high school, still smelling faintly of library books and cheap strawberry shampoo. Walter was sixty. A widower. A man whose hands were permanently stained with soil and whose back bent like an old oak after too many storms.
They whispered in the grocery store.
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