Love & Death on Netflix: Love, an Axe, and a Verdict That Makes No Sense

I started this series thinking it would be something calm. You know the type — 1970s suburbs, “perfect” families, slightly bored housewives… the kind of show you watch before going to sleep.

I was completely wrong. What begins as a simple story about a “rules-based” affair quietly turns, without warning, into something much darker. And not necessarily because you know a crime is coming, but because everything feels… normal. Too normal.

And that’s when the thought hits you — and doesn’t let go: how easily can someone’s life change overnight? No… not overnight. In a split second.

Because when you think about it, our lives are a strange mix of calculated decisions and instinctive reactions. And the ones that truly change everything are not the ones we plan — but the ones we react to.

That’s where something breaks.

And maybe the most unsettling part of this story isn’t the crime itself, but the creeping feeling that… it could happen to anyone. There’s no clear “type.” No obvious moment where you can say, “this is where it turns dangerous.”

It was a fight — one or the other. One survives. One doesn’t.

And yes, in some way, you can see Candy as a victim too. But then comes the question that hits like a wall: how do you strike someone 41 times with an axe… and then walk away and act like nothing happened?

That’s where there are no answers. Just emptiness. And while we’re talking about things that don’t quite add up…

The casting threw me off more than once — almost in a funny way. Candy is beautiful, confident, sharp. Allan… well, Allan feels like the kind of man you wouldn’t notice even if he waved at you. And Pat, despite being an engineer, comes across as oddly… lost.

Then I looked up the real people behind the story — and that was a shock. They look nothing alike. And suddenly you start wondering: how much of this is real, and how much is just… storytelling?

Because that’s the real contradiction here: we’re told it’s based on true events, yet everything is shaped like a narrative.

And maybe the most frustrating part isn’t even that. It’s the verdict.

A woman admits she killed someone. The details are horrifying. And yet… she walks free. Because sometimes, it’s not just the facts that matter — it’s how they’re told. A good “performance” can change everything.

And you’re left there, as a viewer, with a question that refuses to close: where does truth end, and interpretation begin?

And maybe that’s what bothered me most about the entire series: not the crime, not the people, not even the verdict… but the fact that nothing comes together into a meaning that lets you feel at peace.

The ending doesn’t give you closure. Quite the opposite.

You want more. What happened to them afterward? Why did Candy and Pat divorce after everything they went through together? Why did the defense attorney take his own life? Questions that remain suspended, unanswered.

And maybe that’s the most honest part of the whole story. Not everything makes sense. Not every story ends cleanly.

Some just… stay with you. Because at the end of the day, this verdict makes no sense. And that’s exactly why it lingers.