The Woman Who Destroyed Elvis Presley

August 16, 1977. Memphis, Tennessee. Ninety-three degrees and not a cloud in the sky. Inside Graceland, the air conditioning hummed. The gates were closed. The world outside had no idea what was about to happen. And somewhere deep inside that house — behind the shag carpet and the mirrored ceilings and the gold records on the wall — a forty-two-year-old man was living the last hours of his life. His name was Elvis Aaron Presley. And he should not have been dying. Let me say that again, because I think we've gotten so used to the tragedy of how Elvis ended that we've forgotten how shocking it actually was. This was not a sick man in decline who everyone could see was fading. This was not a slow goodbye that gave people time to prepare. This was a man who had sold out a concert tour. A man who had a show scheduled in Portland, Maine the very next day. A man whose daughter — nine years old, the center of his entire universe — had just been at Graceland visiting him two weeks before. He was making plans. He was still moving. He was still here. And then, in a single afternoon, he was gone.