My 5-year-old daughter spent over an hour in the bathroom with my husband. I asked her, “What are you doing in there?” She looked down with tears in her eyes, but didn’t answer. The next day, I secretly checked for myself—and what I saw made my blood run cold and left me dialing the police immediately. I used to tell myself I was overreacting—imagining monsters in the shadows of my own home.
Chapter 1: The Games My life, to any outside observer, was a picture-perfect suburban dream. I was thirty-four years old, a successful freelance graphic designer who worked from the bright, sunlit kitchen island of our beautiful four-bedroom colonial home. Mark, my husband of six years, was a charming, well-respected regional sales director for a medical…
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