skies of Eastern Europe. My name was Gabrielle Johns, but for half a decade, I

aring over the Atlantic, heading home to suburban Virginia. Home to my husband, Matt

r emergencies," he' d said, his eyes, usually hard as granite, showing a rare

tended, high-risk consulting gig for an international corporation. A lie Matthew' s domineering mother, Rosalynn, had al

only learned about it through a heavily redacted report. She was wheelchair-bound, her speech limited. Th

eras I had installed years ago. A failsafe. A secret I never told anyone, no

e gleaming, expensive kitchen of our h

didn't reach her cruel eyes. She was holding a bowl. In a wheelchair, my mother, An

d was a sickening crack, even through the tiny phone speaker. She then force

tched. My bl

girl. She was on her hands and knees on the pristine marble f

' s voice was sickly sweet. "Now lick i

n to cry, her small body shaking.

the back of her

t-year-old daughter was forced to lick

knew well, a familiar companion from my years in the field. Bu

until the plastic groaned and cracked. The

was going to handle this