Chapter 1 - The Witching Hour
At exactly 3:07 a.m., the violent tearing of cotton and wool jolted me from a restless sleep. Before my eyes could even adjust to the darkness, my husband’s hands clamped down on my ankles. Derek ripped the heavy winter blanket away with a ferocious yank and dragged me bodily off the edge of the mattress. I hit the hardwood floor with a bone-jarring thud.
Before I could even draw a breath to scream, his fist swung downward in a vicious arc, splitting my lower lip against my teeth. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth instantly.
“Get up, useless woman!” Derek shouted, his voice a ragged edge of pure venom.
My cheek struck the sharp corner of the mahogany bedframe. A blinding flash of white light exploded behind my eyes, sending a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. But I did not beg. I clamped my jaw shut, swallowing the blood. Begging had entertained him before. It fueled his twisted sense of superiority.
I turned my head slightly, pressing my throbbing cheek against the cold floorboards. In the doorway, the hallway light cast a long, imposing shadow. Derek’s mother, Marlene, stood there, clutching her expensive silk robe tightly around her waist. She was looking down at me, and to my absolute horror, she was laughing.
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“Maybe now she’ll finally learn who owns this house,” Marlene sneered, her voice dripping with aristocratic contempt.
I stared past Derek’s heavy boots, fixing my gaze on the ceiling above the armoire. Hidden inside the casing of the smoke detector, a tiny, almost imperceptible blue light blinked steadily in the darkness. It was recording everything. Every shout, every blow, every cruel laugh. The camera was my silent witness, and in that agonizing moment, it was the only thing keeping me tethered to my sanity.
