The Binge Cases: Denise Didn't Come Home - Fatal Beauty | 4. There's Something About Camille

Episode Date: April 22, 2025

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Or visit getthebinge.com to get access wherever you listen. Feed your true crime obsession. In an age before the internet could track every move and every deception, Sandra Bridewell moved like a ghost. No social media to expose her lies. Former friends and acquaintances who suspected her of wrongdoing weren't sharing their concern online. So Sandra could just find new people to charm, who were none the wiser about her past.

But in May 1987, that veil of protection wore paper thin. Yeah, one husband died while you're involved with him and three, a lot of smoke there. So we were looking for fire. That's Eric Miller. He co-wrote a nearly 12,000-word story titled, Sandra Bridewell is the Black Widow. It didn't mince words. The article laid out how the good people of Dallas had long gossiped that she was guilty of at least one murder.

It appeared in D magazine, which has long been a voice of how Dallas sees itself. And Sandra's face landed on the cover with a headline that read, Death and Gossip in Highland Park. Pictured donning a bright smile that stretched ear to ear and looked a touch like Catherine Hepburn. Much like Katharine Hepburn, to this day, it's one of the publication's most popular pieces. Back in 1987, when it hit newsstands in Highland Park, locals devoured every word. By then, Sandra was long gone. She'd left for Marin County, as we told you last episode.

But that Black Widow article would complicate things for Sandra. For the rest of her life, as she moved from city to city, the article became a warning to people she tried to lure in. Like a woman in the Bay Area who struck up a fast and close friendship with Sandra after meeting at a Black Tie event. Who knows how that might have ended had someone not faxed a copy of the article to her. Here's a broadcast from San Francisco's News Center for with the scoop. We've learned the FBI took the highly unusual step of issuing a warning to a San Francisco woman who was a close friend of Sandra Bridewell. Investigative reporter Glenn Whitley recounted what happened when the feds reached out.

Have you read that article, the article in D magazine? If you took Betsy Bagwell and put her in California, you are Betsy Bagwell, alluding to Betsy Bagwell's death, her death by quote-unquote suicide. The FBI told her to end all contact with Sandra Bridewell, to never be alone with her. This woman is terrified. Incredibly, she did manage to break free. Who knows why she was able to step away and survive while Betsy Bagwell died? We may never know. But here's what's truly scary about Sandra. She's the kind of

predator who could stay under the radar. She could get people to underestimate her, to not worry even when they had heard multiple allegations against her. Some people in her affluent circle in California were simply unfazed that she'd been called the Black Widow in print. The fact that she had never been charged, you know, she wasn't arrested, she wasn't indicted, you know, that seemed to mean that it was all gossip by vindictive people that didn't like her because she was so beautiful and so, so pretty.

She was so beautiful and so, so pretty. In those days, people gave other people like them the benefit of the doubt. There was an unspoken trust, and Sandra capitalized on it. Law enforcement hadn't been able to rein her in. With no one to stop her, she continued to hatch her next plot. Sandra was now on the move. It was going to take an army of self-appointed vigilantes to expose her misdeeds. From Sony Music Entertainment, this is Fatal Beauty.

I'm Cooper Maul. Episode 4. There's Something About Camille. Tracing the path of Sandra Bridewell is not a task for the faint of heart. I know from experience, it is painstakingly complicated and at times frustrating. But there's nobody who knows this woman like Lena Whitley. For Eric Miller and his co-author, Skip Hollinsworth, their 1987 D Magazine article may have been the end of investigating Sandra.

But for Whitley, it was only the beginning. I inherited their file on Sandra Brightwell. In 1989, Whitley wrote an explosive story called Whatever Happened at the Black Widow. After that, she became the person strangers called when their paths crossed with this intriguing beauty. They didn't call the cops. They called Whitley.

One day I was in a meeting and the receptionist came in and said, uh, Linda, there's a call for you. She didn't ditch meetings for a phone call, but the receptionist practically twisted her arm. She was very insistent. Whitley went to see who was on the phone. It was a man who described himself as an architect from Arizona. And he was visiting someone in Dallas. He had come across a story about the California chapter of Sandra

Bridewell, a beautiful, mysterious woman known in Highland Park as the Black Widow. And he said, is this story true? He couldn't believe it. He thought, you know, these journalists, they black widow. And he said, is this story true? He couldn't believe it. He thought, you know, these journalists, they just make things up. I said, no, this is not made up. Glenna assured him that the piece

had been meticulously researched, vetted and fact checked. And he said, well, this woman is in my house in Arizona. And I was just stunned. The man confided in Glenn that he and Sandra were not only dating, but she had quickly moved into his house and was very pushy about expanding their

relationship, extending their relationship to another level. Whitley knew where this could be headed. extending their relationship to another level. I had to tell him, I think you should get her out of your house. And I know people thought that I was obsessed with her, that I wrote so many stories about her. And in a way, maybe I was obsessed with it, but I had a good reason to be obsessed with it. I believed that she was responsible for murder. Law enforcement had seemingly given up on stopping Sandra.

If not Glenna, then who? Sandra. If not Glenna, then who? Especially as the internet began to become more widespread, people would use Google searches for different names, and they would ultimately lead back to the D Magazine story. And then they'd call Whitley with a slew of questions. Sandra had started tweaking her name ever so slightly. Sandra Camille Powers was her name as a child. She changes it to Sandra Camille Stegall and then Bridewell. She uses a variation of those first names and last names.

On legal documents, leases, IDs, she played musical chairs with her name, I think to try to outrun her reputation as a Black widow. Back in the 90s, Whitley had become a hotline. Even later after I left D Magazine, she'd go on to write for the Dallas Observer. People would track me down and they would call me and say, uh, do you know this woman? It was a pattern that would repeat itself many times over the next 20 years. Each name change made tracking her harder. So did her frequent moves.

Whitley found Sandra's web of deception stretched across the country. She had addresses in Connecticut, Hawaii, and Massachusetts. And she would use P.O. boxes to keep her address a mystery. For a while she was using different people's social security numbers. And if you're wondering, yes, it's illegal to use someone else's social security number. She was opening herself up to serious criminal charges, but it was nearly impossible to pin her down anywhere for long. For a moment there in the early 90s, the phone calls came to a halt.

Whitley thought she may have lost her for good. She kind of vanishes. The trail had becomes sparse. Sandra wasn't popping up in public records and databases. That is when she re-emerges as Camille Bridewell. It seemed all bets were off getting law enforcement to do a thing about Sandra. But Whitley wasn't the only one keeping tabs on her. Other people had taken up the hunt, too. It was only a matter of time before they'd band together.

In 1994 is when I heard from a private detective. This is when Carrie Huskinson, PI, reached out to Whitley. Here she is. This is where my career actually began. So I had a friend who had a husband who was having an affair. And you guessed it. The husband had taken up with a certain smoldering seductress with long brown hair and a tight waistline. And the friend wasn't one to rock the boat. This is a woman who we would firmly call a 1950s housewife.

Submissive, he has control of everything, you know, this kind of a thing. This is all going down in Northern California. At first, the friend wrestled with the thought that she may just be paranoid, that her husband, a successful businessman, might not be cheating. But I kept pointing out things that, you know, didn't add up. For example, when her husband apparently went to New York for work, I asked, where is he staying? The response I got was, well, he doesn't know. He said he'd call me once he gets there and gets a place.

Well, a businessman doesn't take a dump without a plan. Huskinson wasn't buying it, but her friends still didn't want to face it. Only solid evidence of her husband's infidelity would convince her. Not long after, Huskinson heard from the wife again, while she and her husband were away at their vacation condo for the weekend.

—I got a call at about 3.30 in the morning. She was crying, and then she said she had found long black hairs on her pillow. Oh, hell no. And I told her to go in there, wake his ass up and ask him who the hell this belongs to. It's unclear if the housewife approached him

that aggressively, but whatever she did, she managed to get him to confess. So he did acknowledge that he was having an affair. And that's when she found out her name was Camille. In 2009, three days before Halloween, a grisly crime stunned the Seaport town of Anacortes, Washington. Mark was known as the dog whisperer of Anacortes. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge.

The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge. on the free Odyssey app or wherever you get your podcasts. The following was recorded from inside an ice plunge.

Ah! Okay, all right. When a core's light is cold enough, the mountains on the can turn blue. So the next time you want a cold lager, cold filter, cold package, Coors Light, just wait until those glorious mountains on the can turn blue. It's easy to say that fast when you're freezing gold. Huskinson told me these were devout Christians.

Divorce was out of the question. But the wife wanted to know more about this Camille lady. She mentioned hiring a private investigator. But the guy she'd hired couldn't cut the mustard. Ran background checks, but predominantly on her husband trying to find a connection somewhere. Nothing about the woman. Finding something on the other woman was the whole point.

Heskinson wasn't impressed. I kept making these recommendations on, well, they should do this, they should do that. And so she just popped up and said, I'm hiring you. In an instant, Husskinson's career crystallized. I had a built-in nature, I guess you could say, for sniffing things out. And I took it upon myself to go ahead and dive in.

If you can't already tell, she doesn't mess around. Hussinson wanted to do this by the book. She took a course in private investigation, learned all the rules and policies, then dove in headfirst into finding out everything there was to know about Camille. The mission to track the mistress down was going to be complicated, but the husband was smarter than that. He moved her from California to Boston. We didn't know where in Boston, but we did have a phone number that called directory

assistance over and over and over, trying to get someone to give me the address that went to the phone number. Operators weren't budging. It was a private listing. They couldn't just give out the address. So Hustkinson tried a more unorthodox approach as a means to an end. I pretended to be emotional. And I said, well, here's the thing.

I was adopted. And this is my mom. And I just, I just want to see her. And I pretended to be upset. And she immediately blurted out number three Myrtle Street. And that's how she hung up. The operator didn't give her a name, but this was something. So then I caught a plane and I went to Boston.

But get a load of this part. I sat dressed as a homeless person for two days up on Beacon Hill surveying the home. In her two-day stakeout, she didn't observe any comings and goings. But I was able to get into the building and get a view of the mailbox where I noticed her last name... Bridewell. name. Bridewell. Now she had something to go off of. A last name. But I needed more because at that time I did not have access to any computer databases. Hustgenson thought if she could just get into the apartment she'd be able to get a much better picture of who this Bridewell woman really was. Then an opportunity presented itself when no one would be home, and someone else would

be in town. One of their daughters had graduated from Harvard and was going back there for some type of reunion. This daughter was clued in to her father's misdeeds and wasn't happy about how dirty he'd been doing her mom. Hustgenson thought perhaps she could use that resentment in Nanks to the advantage of the investigation. And I asked her, I said, would you be willing to do something kind of sly? And she said, okay, what he got?

The two were officially in cahoots. So I came up with a plan. I knew that the lease was in both names, and from being there, I knew that both names were on the mailbox. I knew that the daughter shared the last name. To call Hussinson creative would be an understatement. I instructed her to go to a bar,

have a couple drinks, spill a couple of drinks on herself, and call locksmith at about 2.33 o'clock in the morning and ask him to unlock the doors. It worked. If you're like me, you're probably wondering where Camille and her suitor were when this little break-in went down. He had gone to, I think it was South Carolina,

maybe North Carolina, for some type of work for his business, and he would admit that she was with him. His wife was at her wits end. So Huskinson called around to hotels and verified Camille was in fact with him. The dude was still lying. But it gave the daughter two days alone in her apartment. And she went through everything. Took down a ton of notes.

We also got the Robert Bridewell will last will and testament, as well as documents regarding stock, I believe in pride will enterprises. Those were Bobby's documents, Sandra's second husband. And all those papers led back to Dallas. Then another clue and another name. The Neiman Marcus card with the name Sandra Bridewell. But here's the thing. My client and myself didn't realize Sandra and Camille were one in the same. They shared a last name. Could he be sleeping with sisters?

Hustgenson thought this man now had not one, but two mistresses. How the hell was she gonna break this to her friend? Sometime after that, Hustgenson caught wind that Camille and her three-timing husband were back in California at the same vacation condo where her friend had found the long black hairs on the pillow.

At this point, they brought in some backup. We had used an investigator in California to surveil him and her. They used this guy to let the wife know when they'd left the apartment. She wanted to do some sleuthing of her own. And while they were away, the wife looked through things and waited for them to come back. The wife had grown a backbone waited for them to come back. The wife had grown a backbone. It was time for some answers.

She wanted to see her husband's mistress, see this woman for herself once and for all. They came through the door. She waited till they got pretty far into the condominium and then came out. Needless to say, they weren't expecting a visitor. Both of them looking shocked. The wife locked eyes with the other woman. Hello, Camille. I thought we should meet.

Both Camille and the husband tried to make a beeline for the door. She said, no, we're all going to talk about this. I can only imagine her heart was pounding. But now Camille was backed into a corner. And during the course of their conversation, my client mentioned the name Sandra Brightwell. Did Camille know about the other other woman? But that moment, the look on her face was shock.

She was astonished, you know, where did you hear that name? And that's when the penny dropped for Huskinson and her client. And that was a real, you know, where did you hear that name? And that's when the penny dropped for Huskinson and her client. And that was a real, you know, Turner's like, why is she worried about that name? Is she really Sandra instead of Camille? For the wife at that moment, this mistress's real name wasn't the most pressing issue. She wanted her out of their lives. The three of them sat down and discussed, you know, how much she would need to move forward and so forth.

When we spoke, Hustgenson couldn't remember the precise financials. This was 1994 after all. But during this, what I can only imagine as a painfully awkward meeting, the couple agreed to pay Camille to leave them alone. She'd get to stay in the Boston apartment for a few months while she got on her feet. But the affair would end today. And after the meeting, he took her and dropped her off at a hotel. And then he went back to the condo to be with his wife. This husband and wife may have come to some sort of reconciliation, but Huskinson was still stuck on who Sandra might be. There was more to this woman. She was sure of it.

I stayed up all night calling every bride well around Dallas area that I could get the listing for. Every one. About 5 a.m. in the morning, my time, a little bit later theirs, I reached a man. He said, well, you know what time it is?' I said, "'Yes, I'm sorry to bother you, but this is so important.'

And I started telling him about this woman. He goes, "'I'm not that bride well, but I know who you're talking about.' Yeah, she was known as the Black Widow.' I said, "'What?' Yeah, she apparently murdered her husband.'"

Huskinson might've been up all night, but now she was wide awake. She stayed up a bit longer until the Dallas Morning News opened and got a hold of a woman in their archives who confirmed that Sandra and Camille were the same woman. Just when she thought her friend had dodged a bullet, Camille resurfaced months later with some news. She's saying that she's pregnant. When Sandra told Alan she was pregnant, she was still at an age where this was believable.

Now though, she was about 50 years old. The odds of this were vanishingly slim. Camille had proof though. She had provided him with a sonogram. Then she claimed she delivered their child. He immediately caught a plane and went to Boston. In the apartment, he noticed more signs of childbirth. Some type of fluid where she claimed

that her water had broke. But no baby. There was an explanation for that too. She told the guy while he was in California. She had gone and delivered the baby, put it up for adoption and was home within 24 hours. It just doesn't happen like that. He had no choice to inform his wife he'd

been patching things up with. Hustgenson caught wind of this perplexing development and remembered something the daughter found in the apartment search. A current bottle of Premarin. Premarin is basically estrogen. People who take it typically are in menopause or have had a hysterectomy. Not pregnant people.

Husskinson's mind was officially on fire. She decided to take a trip to Dallas. And that is the first time that I met Glenna Whitley. I was staying at a motel. I'll never forget it. She pulled up. And before she'd really even let me get too close, she goes, I need to see your ID.

So I showed her my ID, got in her car. She went through all these stories regarding the hysterectomy and so forth. How she'd played the same game with Alan. I started sniffing around to find out more about this alleged hysterectomy and I found a friend of hers who basically said, yeah, she had a hysterectomy. If she's telling people that she's pregnant, there's no way on earth.

The same friend claimed to have driven Sandra to the very appointment. Knowing what I know now about Hussinson's impressive skill set, I had to ask, were you ever able to find any record of her hysterectomy? No comment. But she did share what other intel she got on the pregnancy. She went the whole 10 yards on that one. That sonogram? And it turned out she had actually cut it

out of a magazine. We told the husband there was no baby. But around this time, Sandra showed her true colors. She started demanding money or else she'd tell anyone who'd listen he'd had an affair with her if they'd had a bastard child. Here's the thing, because there was no documented proof of a hysterectomy, there was always these very slight potential, maybe there was a baby. Meaning, maybe she could get it back and then require him to pay child support

for the next 20 years. Or go public, discredit him, ruin his business, his companies. So it was basically blackmail in a sense. You know, either you give me what I need or I'm gonna totally destroy your family. Sandra had done it again. He was informed as well as the wife

that they had all the grounds to go ahead and press charges against her for fraud. Lying about being pregnant isn't illegal, but using that lie for financial gain, you bet it is. And it was like, no, we don't wanna do that because that might result in publicity and so forth. And so they just chose to drop it. She basically just disappeared.

And the next time she popped up, Camille was a Christian missionary, a woman of God, who's gone here, there, and everywhere spreading the good word. She played the part flawlessly, the soft voice, the comforting presence, the unwavering devotion to Christ. She wasn't just a believer.

She's a shepherd guiding the loss toward salvation. Or at least she said she was. Do you eat food? Do you go anywhere? Do you stream stuff? Well then get the RBC ION Plus Visa and earn three times the points at grocery stores and restaurants as well as on gas, EV charging, daily transit, streaming services, digital gaming and more all the time. Get the RBC ION Plus Visa. Three times the points. Conditions apply. Visit rbc.com slash ion cards. The new BMO VI Porter MasterCard is your ticket to more. More perks.

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She was standing up and waving her arms in like a worship kind of a stance. None of this was out of the ordinary. New Birth Ministries is a megachurch in Stonecrest, Georgia, just outside Atlanta, with thousands of devotees. It's a Baptist institution with deep roots in the Black community. The person that I was with, that I was getting a ride home with, he kind of pointed her out to me. She stood out not only because she was the only white woman in a crowd of Black parishioners, but because of the way she moved. Exuberant. Expressive. Almost theatrical.

She had this glow and this look about her. And whatever it was, you just almost, you get drawn into her energy. That glow captured Jay's friend she attended the conference with. The magnetic pull extended to the parking lot where he offered her a ride home with him and Jay. She introduced herself as Camille Bridwell. That's Bridwell, not Bridewell. She dropped an E.

The guy who gave us a ride home literally was enchanted with her. He was just hanging on every word. After their initial meeting, their paths continued to cross in their faith-based circle. At a lunch hosted by the same friend who'd given both women a ride, Camille and Jay got to talking more. She was telling us how bad her circumstances were, how horrible her living conditions were. Camille spoke of being forced to sleep in near Squalor,

of church members who had turned a blind eye to her misfortunes. This was no way for a woman pushing 60 to be living. Jay, moved by a sense of Christian duty, extended an offer. I had a three-bedroom condo on Lennox Road and I thought, you know, well, I'm there by myself. She's a churchgoer member. Why wouldn't I just let her move in? So I just felt very sorry for her and I just said, oh, well, you can come and stay with me. She was new to Atlanta and newly divorced.

She had room to spare. I really never even asked her to pay rent because I didn't think it was a permanent thing. But what seemed like an act of goodwill soon turned into something far stranger. It happened really quickly. As weeks passed, Camille proved to be peculiar. When Jay would attempt to get to know her new roommate, Camille kept personal details close to her chest. We didn't ever really get in depth about what, how she lived before she came to Atlanta.

Jay did learn Camille was widowed, that her husband Bobby had died of cancer, and that there was even a foundation in his name. Camille had also told her she was a mother of three, but she wasn't exactly eager to talk about her children. By then, her kids were grownups in their late 20s and mid 30s. When I would ask her about her kids or something about her past, she would always change the subject.

Her demeanor would shift like a shadow against the light. It was odd, but Jay just figured it was none of her business. Speaking of business, Camille was eager to jump into it with Jay. She kept asking me to go into business with her and then kept talking about Keyman Insurance. Keyman Insurance is a type of life insurance policy. A business buys it to protect against financial loss if a key employee dies or becomes disabled. Jay hardly knew this woman. Take out a life insurance policy? No way.

Plus, Camille's financial situation wasn't exactly rock solid. She was always talking about how she's owed all this money. She told Jay she was waiting on money from a trust fund. She was always short on cash. I left my money, or my money hasn't shown up, and I thought it was going to be on my card or just something, always something. She kept asking me for money.

I wouldn't give it to her, but she was becoming such a pain. An uneasiness set in. Jay began to lock onto Camille's habits that were just weird. She operated under a different clock, awake at all hours of the night, stepping out onto the veranda to murmur under the moon. It was like she was speaking in tongues or something. I just kept feeling something was off. Small unshakable doubts formed into something sharper. After about two months of living together, she had a nagging suspicion

there was something dishonest about Camille. One day I just had this feeling came over me to just look at her room. Camille had just stepped out to go window shop at the mall. So Jay snuck into Camille's bedroom. And that's when I discovered all of the crazy crap under her bed. She carefully turned over the air mattress. She was hoarding food under there. Like, she would get food out of the kitchen, but she'd put it under her bed.

Like, somebody was going to take it from her or something. She had all these little notes. She would have all these little weird sayings, how she's going to get money, and how God is bringing her money, just floods of money, windfalls of money, just all kind of money scribbles. They were all little torn pieces of paper. And these were just stacked, like under her bed. It was just like a little trash heap.

It was an absolute rat's nest. Jay's gut began to churn. Just as she was trying to process how the hell Camille could live like this, something else caught her eye. A passport. The passport name wasn't her name. Sandra Camille Bridewell. Jay freaked out.

I was just pissed. This woman has wormed her way into my house, eating up my food, you know, living under my roof, living under a nice roof, mind you. And you know, she's a liar. Curiosity turned into urgency. She turned at the early days of search engines, scrolling through Google and Yahoo, typing in the name from the passport. A charity name surfaced, the Bridewell Foundation,

something Camille had mentioned in passing. A fax number was listed, and in a moment of reckless need, Jay sent a message asking for any information. The next day, she received a cryptic response. It was literally this fax that came over of Glenda's article. And then it said at the top, call me. She dialed immediately. A woman who worked for the foundation picked up the other end of the line. And when I called her, her first words were, well, you might want to sit down.

Boy, did Jay have no idea what she was in for. She told me about the three husbands, the friend that mysteriously died. She would tell me that she was pregnant and then she wasn't pregnant, you know, she really wasn't pregnant and how she used her looks to get what she wanted. Jay's blood ran cold. The woman living under her roof,

the woman that she had fed, housed, trusted, was a fraud. She had been accused of killing. It was like, what? Like, this is a church lady. Like, what are you talking about? And I told her, you know, she's been at my house. She goes to this church. It's like, oh, she doesn't have a church bone in her body.

She certainly didn't. By the sound of it, Sandra was a predator, one who changed her means to an end as easily as shedding skin. Neither Whitley nor Huskinson was the one to warn her, but she'd been warned. She still had a chance to save herself. Jay hung up the phone. And at this time, she was in the shower. Jay had to act quickly.

She wanted Sandra out of her home. So I went in to the kitchen and got a butcher knife. Next, she called for backup. I just decided before I confront her, I need people to come here. Like, I need people at least to be on the way. I went back to my room. I called my brother and his friend. He was with a friend. I said, get over here now.

I called the police and all this was, I shut my door. I was this, I was whispering in my room, please get here. I don't know if I have a murder in my house. With help on the way, Jay decided it was time to approach Sandra herself. She knocked on the bedroom door, Sandra herself. She knocked on the bedroom door, her heart racing. When Sandra emerged wrapped in a towel, she greeted Jay with her usual syrupy warmth. I just said, who are you? And she said, what do you mean? What do you mean? You know who I am.

For a fraction of a second, Sandra's face twisted into something else, something chilling. Her mask had slipped. That is something I'll never forget. She went from this sweet angelic kind of a face to this demon looking face. Like it was the weirdest and craziest, scariest thing I've ever seen. Then she stepped toward Jay. I pulled that knife and I said, if you take one more step towards me, I will drop you where you stand. Sandra stopped right there.

Once she understood that I knew the whole story, the game was up. I said, you might want to get some clothes on because we have company coming. You're going to be going to jail today. She got dressed under watchful eyes. I wouldn't let her out of my sight. Jay led Sandra to the living room and ordered her to sit on the couch while the police were en route. Her demeanor?

Chilling. Cool as a cucumber. And that's when I knew I had been scammed. She was not, you could just tell she'd been down this road before. As if she knew from experience the police couldn't touch her. When officers arrived, they ran Sandra's name. She didn't have any outstanding warrants. No immediate cause for arrest.

What is it about this woman that keeps her walking away scot-free? The female cop looked at me and says, well, you know, according to Georgia law, she's getting out here, you're, according to Georgia law, she's getting mail here. You're going to have to go through the courts to evict her. But Jay didn't need the law to do what had to be done. I looked at her and I said, oh, well, she can stay if she wants to. And I just kept staring her down and she says, no, I think I'll be leaving.

I said, good idea. Good answer. Sandra left that night. She took her suitcase, her lies, and her carefully curated persona with her. By the time Jay went outside to check the parking lot, she was already gone. She had no money, no immediate means of escape.

The one story she told over and over again is how you had to believe in manifestation because she would say that, I just went to the airport and manifested a ticket and was able to travel where I needed to go and just show up because God would take care of me and get, you know, somebody put the right person in my path to give me money to buy my tickets. So I guess that's what she did when she left my place. Later, after Jay had some time to sit with everything that happened, someone pointed out how close she'd come. He said, you need to be grateful that you found this out,

because I have no doubt that had she kept at you to convince you to get insurance, you wouldn't be here. Next time on Fatal Beauty. Sandra started taking over Ms. Sue's finances. Then she started taking over Ms. Sue's finances. Then she started taking over Ms. Sue's mail. She wouldn't let Ms. Sue see any of the statements that were coming in through the bank or any letters. Sandra finally gets caught

when she messes with the wrong family. So they take her outside, put her in the police car, and she's sitting there like nothing. She had no emotion. She's sitting there like nothing. She had no emotion. Unlock all episodes of Fatal Beauty ad free right now by subscribing to the Binge Podcast channel. Not only will you immediately unlock all episodes

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