She Dated Him For 2 Yrs, Tattooed His Name –...

She Dated Him For 2 Yrs, Tattooed His Name – She Find Out Her BF Catfished Her Leading To 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 | HO!!

She Dated Him For 2 Yrs, Tattooed His Name – She Find Out Her BF Catfished Her Leading To 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 | HO!!

PART 1 – A Mother’s Instinct, A Daughter’s Wounds

Mothers often say they can hear danger in the spaces where nothing is said.
For 52-year-old Patience Francis, danger sounded like a ringtone that never got answered.

The night her 26-year-old daughter, Sherlin Francis, did not come home, Patience felt the shift immediately. At first, she tried to explain it away. Maybe Sherlin stayed late with a friend. Maybe she fell asleep watching TV. Maybe her phone died.

By sunrise, those maybes were gone.

The silence had changed from ordinary to ominous.

The Daughter Who Kept Giving Until It Broke Her

To understand how Sherlin ended up at the center of a murder investigation, you have to know who she was before she became a case file.

To most people, Sherlin appeared gentle and soft-spoken, the kind of young woman who smiled politely at neighbors and always seemed willing to listen when coworkers needed to vent. She was not loud. Not confrontational. Not the type to cause trouble.

What almost no one saw was how much she had already lost.

Her first serious relationship had begun like a movie.

Late-night calls that ran into sunrise.
Long drives on nearly empty highways.
The rush of finally feeling chosen.

He told her she was beautiful in ways no one had voiced to her before. For months, she believed they were building a life together.

Then came the fracture.

He grew distant. Excuses replaced affection. When she pressed, he waved her off.

The truth arrived not through confession, but humiliation: she saw him in public, hand-in-hand with another woman, moving through a crowded room like Sherlin had never existed. There was no secrecy. No shame. The betrayal was on display.

Later, a close friend would recall Sherlin saying:

“It felt like everyone knew he was cheating, and I was the only one defending him.”

That first betrayal didn’t just break her trust in him; it cracked her trust in herself. She had defended a lie so fiercely that when it collapsed, it brought her confidence down with it.

Still, she tried again.

The Second Man – And a Different Kind of Damage

The next relationship seemed safer. This man talked about the future. He spoke the language of commitment—bills, saving, long-term plans. It sounded grounded, mature.

When he said he was short on rent, she helped.
When he said his car was down, she dipped into savings.
Groceries, utilities, a little cash “until I’m back on my feet.”

To friends, she justified it:

“He just needs a little help right now. When he gets stable, it’ll be good for both of us.”

What she didn’t know was that her generosity had become the primary reason he stayed.

The truth surfaced in the glow of his phone screen. While he was in the shower one evening, Sherlin saw a string of messages to a friend. In them, he boasted that he wasn’t really into her and was only sticking around because she paid his bills.

One line stuck with investigators later:

“She’s a good fallback. She’ll always help out.”

To Sherlin, those words were devastating.

This time, it was not just love that collapsed. It was her belief that she was worthy of love at all. If one man had cheated on her and another had used her, what did that say about her?

The answer she gave herself was brutal:
Maybe she wasn’t enough.
Maybe she was just useful.

Depression That Didn’t Look Like TV

Friends noticed the change.

She stopped answering calls.
Stopped showing up to gatherings.
At work, she kept her head down, avoiding eye contact.

She was losing weight, skipping meals, claiming she “wasn’t hungry” even as her clothes loosened around her frame. Nights turned into long staring contests with the ceiling. Getting dressed felt like a task. Stepping outside felt like a test she was failing over and over.

In one counseling record later entered at trial, she is quoted as saying:

“I just feel like I’m not enough for anyone. No matter what I give, it’s never good enough.”

The signs were textbook depression, but they were also deeply personal. She wasn’t angry at the world. She was tired of herself.

By her mid-20s, she walked into a community clinic and asked for help. That decision—difficult, scary, and brave—would open the door to the person who would change her life.

Not a boyfriend.

A friend.

Her name was Lillian Scott.

And the bond that formed inside that therapy room would eventually lead Sherlin out of life and into the headlines.

Lillian: The Friend Who Understood Everything

On paper, Lillian’s life looked different, but the pain underneath was familiar.

She grew up in poverty—constant moves, unpaid rent, an absent father, an overworked mother. Stability was something other families had.

Teachers saw potential in her. She was bright, articulate, and once dreamed of becoming a social worker. But dreams require support, and support never really came. While others celebrated college acceptances, she transitioned straight into survival mode.

What grew inside Lillian wasn’t just sadness; it was resentment. Watching others get what she never had left her feeling overlooked, invisible, and quietly angry.

Therapy became her outlet too. A place where, for the first time, someone asked what she felt instead of what she could endure.

That is where she met Sherlin.

In group therapy, their stories overlapped:

Sherlin spoke about betrayal, abandonment, and feeling used.
Lillian spoke about invisibility, envy, and never being chosen.

They did not just hear each other; they recognized themselves in each other.

After one session, Lillian leaned over and told her:

“You’re stronger than you think. Don’t let those men decide your worth.”

It was the kind of sentence Sherlin had needed to hear for years.

Their friendship grew quickly—first in parking lot conversations after therapy, then in coffee shops and late-night phone calls. They traded secrets, fears, and dreams. Sherlin opened up about the shame of being used financially. Lillian revealed how much it hurt to feel perpetually overshadowed by everyone around her.

To Sherlin, this bond was a lifeline.
To Lillian, it was something else as well.

She wasn’t just listening.

She was learning.

Every admission Sherlin gave her—
her fear of being left,
her need for loyalty,
her fragile confidence—
lodged itself in Lillian’s mind like a blueprint.

What began as empathy slowly bent into something more calculated.

And Sherlin never saw it.

PART 2 – The Perfect Boyfriend Who Didn’t Exist

By early 2022, Sherlin was still healing, still fragile, but stronger than she had been before. She worked, went to therapy, and leaned on Lillian’s presence. Even without a romantic partner, she told herself she might be okay.

Love, however, has a way of showing up exactly where the lonely go to look for it.

Online.

“Good Morning, I Hope You’re Okay Today”

One February morning, Sherlin’s phone lit up with a new message request on Facebook Messenger.

The name on the screen: Andrew Norman.

His profile picture showed a man in his early 30s. Close-cropped hair, a clean smile, unremarkable clothes. No luxury cars, no flashy flexing. Just a few family photos and old status updates.

The first message was simple:

“Good morning. I hope you’re doing okay today.”

It was respectful. No crude lines, no instant flattery. Just concern.

In a digital world full of aggressive strangers and half-hidden motives, the message disarmed her. She did not answer right away, but he kept writing:

“Hope work isn’t too hard on you today.”
“Don’t forget to eat something. You matter more than you think.”
“You deserve someone who actually cares.”

He was saying the exact things she’d never heard from the men who had hurt her—and the things she’d secretly been begging to hear.

Eventually, she replied:

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Almost immediately, he responded:

“I appreciate you more. You seem like the kind of woman who just needs someone to see her for who she really is.”

That line hooked her.

The Prison Reveal

It didn’t take long for Andrew to reveal something unusual.

He said he was incarcerated, serving time in a state facility.

Sherlin’s first reaction was confusion. She knew inmates weren’t supposed to have regular access to social media.

When she asked how he was messaging her, he provided a smooth explanation: his cousin ran the page, he said, posting messages that Andrew dictated over monitored phone calls.

“I know it’s not the same as being free,” he wrote, “but I couldn’t stay quiet after I came across your profile. Something about you made me want to reach out.”

It sounded improbable, but not impossible. Sherlin had no real reason to doubt him. She wanted to believe. So she did.

From that point on, the messages intensified.

Every morning:

“Good morning, beautiful.”

Every night:

“Good night, my queen.”

Routine became ritual. The consistency, the attention, the tenderness—it filled the space where past relationships had left craters.

Friends later told investigators that Sherlin’s face would light up when she heard her phone buzz. She talked about him often:

“He really cares about me. He checks on my mental health. He worries when I don’t reply. He’s different.”

He was also completely out of her physical reach.
And in a twisted way, that made her feel safe.

“No one can take him away from me,” she once joked.

The Other Person in the Story

Throughout this time, Lillian never left her side.

By day, she was the supportive friend—listening to Sherlin talk about her new long-distance, behind-bars relationship. She raised occasional “concerns” in a careful, measured tone:

“Just… don’t get your hopes up too high. He’s in prison. Ask yourself if this is really fair to you.”

At night, the tone changed.

Because at night, Lillian was Andrew.

Investigators would later show that both the “Lillian” account and the “Andrew” account were operated from the same devices, using the same Wi-Fi, often within minutes of each other.

As Andrew, she was possessive, demanding, and controlling:

“Don’t waste time with other men.”
“If you love me, prove it. Don’t be out with guys from work.”
“You’re mine. Always mine.”

As Lillian, she softened the edges:

“Maybe he’s just protective.”
“Maybe he’s scared of losing you because he cares.”

She played both comforter and controller, reinforcing the same emotional messages from two sides of Sherlin’s life.

Sherlin never saw the overlap.
To her, it was coincidence, not choreography.

Thirty Thousand Messages

By mid-2022, “Andrew” was not just a presence in Sherlin’s life—he was the center of it.

Their message count climbed into the thousands.

By early 2023, records show more than 30,000 messages exchanged. The content ranged from romantic to obsessive:

Check-ins about her eating and sleeping.
Long declarations of loyalty.
Jealous warnings about potential rivals.
Late-night reassurance when her depression flared.

He positioned himself as the one person who would never leave.

“Those men were fools,” he told her.
“You’re worth more than they ever saw. I’ll never walk away. No matter where I am, I’m with you.”

To someone who had been abandoned and used, those words were not casual. They were salvation.

And Sherlin committed to that salvation permanently.

She walked into a tattoo shop and had his name inked onto her body: Andrew.

The artist later described her as nervous, but resolute. She wasn’t impulsive. She had thought about it. It meant something.

When a friend questioned it, she replied:

“He’s the one for me. I want him with me always, even if he’s not here.”

It was a choice that would later sit at the center of the prosecution’s narrative:
proof of how deeply she believed in a man who did not exist.

The Slow Turn from Romance to Control

Over time, the tone of Andrew’s messages shifted.

What began as tenderness thickened into control.

He questioned where she went.
Who she spoke to.
How quickly she replied.

When Sherlin mentioned going out with coworkers, he pushed back:

“I don’t like you around other guys. If you really love me, respect that.”

What she heard: a man afraid of losing her.
What it really was: a predator tightening the leash.

Even then, whenever doubt flickered, Lillian was there—telling her to stay the course, to “fight for love,” to not “throw away something real” just because it was hard.

The emotional triangle was complete:

Sherlin, longing for loyalty.
Andrew, the unseen boyfriend offering devotion.
Lillian, the best friend reinforcing both the love and the control.

For nearly two years, no one outside that triangle knew what was really happening.

Not Patience.

Not their therapists.

Not the police.

Not yet.

PART 3 – “Why Does It Sound Like You?”: Confrontation, Violence, and a Night in the Woods

By early 2024, the love story began to crack.

Not all at once.
Not with one big reveal.
But with tiny fractures that only someone already on edge would notice.

The Coincidences

The first unsettling moment came after therapy one afternoon.

Sherlin told Lillian she wanted to try a yoga class, something to calm her mind and reclaim her body from the constant tension. She said it casually, as they walked to their cars.

That evening, her phone buzzed.

From Andrew:

“Don’t waste your time at yoga tomorrow. It’s not for you.”

She froze.

She had never mentioned yoga to him.

No posts. No texts. No hints.

She brushed it off as coincidence—an odd one, but still explainable. Maybe she’d mentioned fitness in passing and forgotten.

A week later, it happened again.

Over a diner meal with Lillian, she joked about craving shrimp pasta from her favorite restaurant.

Hours later, a new message:

“Don’t eat that pasta. You know it’s not good for you.”

Again, no posts. No messages. Just a private conversation with Lillian—and the same comment from Andrew.

The third time, it was about work.

Late one night, exhausted and overwhelmed, Sherlin admitted to Lillian:

“Some mornings I can’t even get out of bed. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

The next morning:

“Don’t let depression make you skip shifts,” Andrew wrote.
“You have to keep going.”

She stared at the screen.
Her stomach knotted.

It could be chance, she told herself.
People talk about work, food, fitness all the time.

But the overlaps kept coming—too specific, too precise, too frequent.

And the feeling she tried so hard to suppress finally formed into words:

“Why does he sound like you?”

The Confrontation

One Thursday evening in late March 2024, Sherlin stopped arguing with her own instincts and decided to confront the only person who could answer the question.

She drove to Lillian’s apartment around 7 p.m.

Inside, the air felt tight.

At first, there was small talk. A performed normalcy.

Then Sherlin set her phone on the table and said quietly:

“I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”

She laid it out piece by piece:

The yoga comment.
The shrimp pasta warning.
The work-shift message.

Each time, she paired what she had told Lillian with what Andrew had later said.

“Tell me how he keeps knowing,” she said.
“Because I never told him these things.”

Lillian fell back on the old script.

“His cousin runs that page. You know that.”

When Sherlin didn’t flinch, Lillian added:

“How could you even think that about me?”

Denial disguised as hurt.

But Sherlin had come prepared. She pulled a folded page of notes from her bag—dates, times, overlapping conversations.

She pointed to strings of messages sent from Andrew’s account just minutes after leaving Lillian’s place.

“You both say ‘hold your head up’ the same way.”
“You both write ‘alot’ as one word.”
“Sometimes, I hear his words from you first.”

Lillian’s face flushed.

“Stop it,” she snapped.

The energy in the room flipped from tension to hostility.

“The way he talks to me,” Sherlin pressed, voice shaking,
“the things he says—they sound like you. Sometimes I read his messages and feel like I already heard them come out of your mouth.”

“Tell me I’m wrong, Lillian. Please.”

Lillian lashed back:

“That’s crazy, Sher. Why would you say something like that?”

Her voice went up, not because she was offended, but because the lie was collapsing.

When Sherlin said, “I’m not leaving until I get an answer,” and slid her phone farther out of reach, something in the air snapped.

A neighbor would later tell police they heard raised voices. A thud. Then silence.

Inside, the argument turned physical.

The first move was a lunge for the phone.

A shove.
A stumble.
The sound of furniture scraping the floor.

The phone skidded away, bumping against the baseboard.

Both women went after it.

Sherlin tried to steady herself on a nearby table. Lillian grabbed the base of a heavy lamp, a reflex move that would define the rest of her life.

The swing was fueled by panic more than rage, but weight and metal don’t care why they’re moving.

The lamp struck Sherlin’s head with a dull, sickening impact.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Sherlin swayed, reached for a chair that wasn’t there, then crumpled.

Lillian’s anger evaporated in an instant.

“Oh my God… get up,” she whispered.

But the night was already past the point of undoing.

The Killing

What happened in the next seconds, investigators say, was not carefully planned. It was frantic, chaotic, fueled by fear and a catastrophic inability to accept responsibility.

Lillian dropped to her knees.

Instead of calling 911, she did something else.

She put her hands around Sherlin’s throat.

At first, it was as if she was trying to shake her awake, to stop her from moving. But the pressure increased. Her fingers dug in.

“Stop moving,” she muttered—though by then, the choice was no longer Sherlin’s.

The pathologist later testified that the injuries—bruising around the neck, broken vessels in the eyes—were consistent with manual strangulation. Sherlin had fought. Dirt and skin fragments under her nails suggested she clawed at her attacker and the floor.

Within moments, it was over.

A life that had been defined by being hurt by others ended at the hands of the person she trusted most.

Lillian pulled back, staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else.

The apartment felt suddenly airless.

The Cover-Up

What came next was movement without conscience—only survival.

She grabbed a sheet from the hall closet and wrapped Sherlin’s body, almost gingerly, like a twisted form of care that no longer mattered.

She wiped the lamp.
Set the chair upright.
Picked up the phone and slipped it into her pocket.

In the bathroom, she used a damp towel to dab away smudges on the floor. She looked through the peephole, listening for footsteps, waiting for a shout that never came.

The clock on the stove read 8:12 p.m.

She dragged the bundle down the hallway, struggling under the weight.

In the parking lot, wind cut through her sweater. She scanned the area—porch lights, parked cars, no witnesses. She hoisted the wrapped body into the trunk and shut it with a hollow bang that echoed in her head.

“It’s going to be okay,” she told herself.

But the words rang empty.

She drove.

Turned right, then left. No clear destination. Just a desperate desire to get away from the place where it had happened.

City lights faded behind her.
Two-lane roads framed by trees swallowed the car.

Around midnight, she turned onto a dirt path she half-remembered from her teenage years—a place kids once went to disappear from parents and police. Now, it would serve a darker purpose.

She parked in the shadows and opened the trunk.

Cold air. Pine. Earth.

She dragged the sheet-wrapped body to the ground. Her arms shook with effort.

“I’m sorry, Sher,” she whispered.

Then she started to dig.

The soil was hard, resisting each thrust of the small garden spade she’d grabbed from home. Sweat mixed with tears. Time blurred. The hole that formed was shallow, uneven—nowhere near enough for a proper burial, but more than she could manage.

She pushed the bundle into the depression and covered it with dirt and leaves. The white of the sheet disappeared beneath dark earth.

She scattered branches across the disturbed soil, a clumsy camouflage.

Then came the staging.

She tossed Sherlin’s phone into nearby brush, partially hidden. She laid Sherlin’s scarf on a stump like it had been forgotten. A bracelet fell from her wrist onto the ground. She left it there, telling herself it would make the scene look natural.

The picture she wanted investigators to see was simple:

A young woman, depressed and overwhelmed, had wandered into the woods and never come back.

It was a story that would rely on one thing:

People believing depression was the entire explanation—and not a vulnerability someone chose to exploit.

Lillian closed the trunk, got behind the wheel, and drove back toward town.

Behind her, in the darkness, the shallow grave waited to be found.

PART 4 – A Mother’s Search, Digital Fingerprints, and the Verdict

The next morning, Patience woke into a silence that felt wrong.

No message.
No missed call.
No sign that her daughter was safe.

Her calls to Sherlin went straight to voicemail. Over and over.

Patience did not have the luxury of dismissing her fear. She had buried a husband years earlier. She knew how quickly a life could disappear.

She went to a neighbor, Simon, who helped people in the complex with phones and Wi-Fi issues.

“I can’t reach my daughter,” she told him. “I just need to know where her phone is.”

Using a locator app, Simon tracked the last known ping.

It pointed to Lillian’s apartment.

Within an hour, Patience was knocking on that door.

“She Left. She Must’ve Forgotten Her Phone.”

When Lillian opened the door, she looked unkempt. Her voice was tight.

Patience got straight to the point:

“Where’s Sherlin? Her phone shows it’s here.”

Lillian replied too fast:

“She left last night. Must’ve forgotten her phone.”

She kept the door mostly closed behind her, blocking the view inside.

Patience’s instincts flared. Her daughter did not go anywhere without her phone. Not when she was already this fragile.

“Left without her phone?” she repeated. “That’s not her.”

Lillian shifted, changed details. At one moment she said Sherlin left upset. The next, she claimed Sherlin had been calm. She wavered about the time. She could not give a clear destination.

Patience caught every inconsistency.

“Which was it?” she asked. “Upset or calm?”

Lillian folded her arms and snapped:

“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying that much attention. She just walked out.”

The answer did nothing to calm a mother who knew her child’s habits better than anyone.

Patience looked her straight in the eye and said quietly:

“If you’re not telling me the truth, I’ll find it myself.”

Then she left.

But she did not go home and wait.

She went to the police.

The Digital Autopsy

Officers took her statement and moved quickly.

The last known location of Sherlin’s phone, the inconsistencies in Lillian’s answers, and the emotional context—a vulnerable woman, a missing daughter—gave them cause to dig deeper.

Soon, detectives had:

Secured Lillian’s apartment.
Seized devices.
Requested data from social platforms.

What came back told a story Lillian never planned for.

Digital forensics placed the “Andrew Norman” account inside Lillian’s apartment:

Messages sent from her Wi-Fi.
Sessions logged in from her devices.
Timestamps overlapping with her known location.

Experts traced IP addresses, login patterns, and device IDs.

They compared the language used in messages from “Andrew” with those from Lillian:

The same grammatical quirks.
The same misspellings (including “alot”).
The same phrases she used in person with Sherlin and in texts as herself.

One forensic specialist summarized it for the jury:

“Every keystroke leaves a trail. The account ‘Andrew Norman’ and Lillian Scott’s devices are, functionally, the same voice.”

Witnesses from therapy group sessions testified that:

Lillian often discouraged Sherlin from seeing other men.
She warned her that “guys out here just want to hurt you.”
She seemed unusually invested in keeping Sherlin emotionally isolated.

Meanwhile, search teams were sent to areas flagged by cell tower data and movement logs.

Eventually, they found the disturbed soil.

A shallow grave.
A sheet.
Remnants of scarf fabric.
Sherlin’s body.

The autopsy confirmed what digital evidence suggested: this was no suicide.

The cause of death: manual strangulation.

Defensive wounds on her body.
Soil under her nails.
Bruising patterns consistent with a struggle.

The story of a depressed woman disappearing into the woods to end her life fell apart under the weight of physical evidence.

Lillian had not just lied.

She had manipulated, confined, and ultimately killed.

The Trial

By the time the case reached court, the community was already shaken.

The prosecution’s narrative was stark:

Lillian weaponized Sherlin’s vulnerability.
She invented a boyfriend persona, “Andrew,” to gain control.
She spent two years tightening that control through emotional manipulation.
When confronted, she killed Sherlin and staged a false disappearance.

The defense tried to cast doubt.

They suggested someone else could have used her Wi-Fi.
They suggested the evidence was circumstantial.
They implied the death could have been a tragic accident in a fight that “got out of hand.”

But patterns don’t lie.

Prosecutors presented:

Technical experts connecting accounts to devices and location.
Linguists who testified that the writing style between Lillian and Andrew was statistically indistinguishable.
Friends and therapists who highlighted how Lillian’s spoken phrases matched Andrew’s messages.
Timeline reconstructions showing Sherlin alive at Lillian’s home, then never seen again.

The most emotional moment came when Patience took the stand.

She spoke quietly about raising her daughter alone after her husband’s sudden death, about Sherlin’s struggle with depression, and about how grateful she had been when Lillian came into her life.

“I trusted her with my child,” she told the jury.
“I thought she was helping her heal. All the while, she was hurting her.”

Jurors watched a mother describe sitting at her daughter’s grave, talking to a headstone because that was all she had left.

Several jurors wiped tears.

The courtroom, for a few minutes, was entirely still.

The Verdict and Sentence

When the verdict was read, Lillian stood motionless.

Guilty of murder.
Guilty of unlawful disposal of a body.
Guilty of falsifying evidence and obstruction.

At sentencing, the judge did not mince words.

He called her actions:

“A calculated exploitation of a vulnerable woman.”
“A sustained deception that turned friendship into a weapon.”
“A killing that began the moment you decided to become someone else online.”

He sentenced her to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Her double life—best friend in public, boyfriend in secret—was over.

What Remains

For Patience, the sentence was not closure.

It was, at best, confirmation.

She visits Sherlin’s grave regularly. Neighbors have seen her sitting there in silence, sometimes speaking softly, as though updating her daughter on the trial, the weather, and the life that continues in her absence.

One afternoon, a passerby overheard her say:

“They took your future, but they can’t take my love for you.”

The community did not simply move on from this case.

Churches, support groups, and local organizations began hosting discussions on:

The dangers of catfishing.
How abusers exploit loneliness and mental health struggles.
Why “online relationships” can be more than just emotional scams—they can be precursors to violence.

Mental-health advocates emphasized that catfishing is not just a “romance scam” issue. It is psychological control:

Isolate.
Immerse.
Dominate.

Sherlin’s story became a warning.

Not just about internet strangers.

But about the terrifying possibility that the person behind the profile picture might be someone already inside your life.

The Questions That Don’t Go Away

In the end, the case leaves behind a series of questions that no verdict can fully answer:

How do you protect someone who is desperate to believe in love?
How do you spot a predator when they come disguised as a friend?
And how many other people are living out digital relationships without realizing who is really on the other end?

Sherlin believed she had finally found loyalty—a man who checked on her daily, who promised never to leave, who seemed to understand every corner of her pain.

She tattooed his name on her skin.

But he was never real.

Behind every message, every “Good morning, beautiful,” every “Good night, my queen,” was Lillian.

Her best friend.

The woman she trusted most.

And when Sherlin finally found the courage to ask the one question that could save her—
“Are you him?”—
the truth did not set her free.

It killed her.