I watched him from the corner of my barely open eyes. “Just stay still,” I told myself. He lifted my arm, twisted my leg, and took another photo. My own husband—my safe place—was cataloging me like I was nothing more than a product. When he whispered into his phone, ‘Almost ready for the final phase,’ my blood ran cold. I had to move, but if I did, would I survive the night?”
My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure Dererick could hear it, but I forced myself to lie still in our bed, pretending to be unconscious. The red numbers on our alarm clock glowed 2:17 a.m., and I could see him moving in the darkness, wearing latex gloves and carrying a black bag I…