On Easter Sunday, my daughter called me sobbing, “Dad, please come get me.” My son-in-law laughed as his mother shoved me off the porch—“Go back to your lonely house.” I pushed inside… and found my daughter on the floor, bruised and bleeding while they hunted eggs. They thought I’d walk away—until I quietly made one call that would end everything.

But in the absolute center of the room, lying in a broken, unnatural heap on a massive, expensive white Persian rug, was a sight that made a father’s heart stop beating.

Lily was curled up on the rug, unmoving. A dark, ugly, viscous pool of blood was seeping from a wound on her temple, staining the pristine white wool a sickening shade of crimson.

And standing over her, casually adjusting the expensive French cuffs of his tailored silk shirt, a smug, self-satisfied, almost bored smile on his face, was Richard.

2. The Bloody Confession

“Get away from her!” I roared, the sound echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings of the mansion.

I sprinted across the room, my boots sinking into the thick, plush carpet. I dropped to my knees beside my daughter, my hands trembling violently as I gently cradled her head.

Her face was a horrific, swollen mess. Her left eye was already bruised shut, the skin around it a deep, mottled purple. A long, angry red welt, the unmistakable imprint of a human hand, was emblazoned across her neck.

She was breathing. Shallow, ragged, but breathing.

“Lily, baby, I’m here,” I whispered, my voice choked with a mixture of terror and rage.