Before I became a mother, I spent twelve years as a senior forensic accountant for the state attorney general’s office. I didn’t just read numbers. I found ghosts inside them. I knew how criminals hid money, built false alibis, and eventually got careless.
But first, I had to survive.
The gaslighting began the moment Brooke unpacked her designer luggage.
My keys vanished from the counter and appeared in the refrigerator. Photos of Ava and Jack were turned face down or hidden under the bed. I would walk into the kitchen and find the gas burners on high while Brooke stood nearby, asking why I was trying to burn the house down.
Then came the sounds.
At two in the morning, I heard Ava crying through the vents.
The first time, the mother in me overpowered the investigator. I ran to the empty nursery, sobbing. Ryan was waiting in the doorway with a glass of water and pills.
“You’re losing your mind,” he said. “Brooke called my doctor. Take these before you completely break.”
So I took the pills.
Every night, I let my body go limp. I let them believe I was sedated. But once their footsteps disappeared, I crawled to the bathroom and forced the pills back up. Then I washed my face in cold water and stared at myself in the mirror.
I was dying inside.
