Chapter 1 - Every night at exactly 8:10, my five-year-old daughter Sophie disappeared upstairs with my husband, Mark.At first, I never questioned it.
Bath time had always been their thing.
Mark said Sophie liked the warm water because it helped her settle down before bed. Sometimes she would come downstairs afterward wearing her pink pajamas, her curls still damp, looking sleepy but peaceful.
Then the bath times became longer.
Twenty minutes became forty.
Forty became an hour.
One night, I checked the clock at 9:07.
They were still upstairs.
I laughed it off.
“Maybe she’s telling him stories.”
But Sophie stopped telling me anything about the baths.
When I asked what she played, she would shrug.
When I asked if she had fun, she would nod.
But she stopped smiling.
Then she began coming out exhausted.
Not sleepy.
Exhausted.
Her little shoulders would sag, and she would clutch her towel so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
I started noticing something else.
She wouldn't look at me.
Not until Mark was out of the room.
One Thursday night, I found her sitting on the bottom step while Mark went downstairs to get his phone.
“Sophie?”
She looked at me.
Her eyes were red.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“Do you like bath time?”
Another nod.
“What do you and Daddy do up there for so long?”
Her expression changed instantly.
She looked toward the kitchen.
Mark was only a few feet away.
Then she whispered something that made my stomach twist.
“Daddy says I can't talk about the bathroom games.”
“What games?”
She shook her head.
“He says it's our secret.”
I crouched in front of her.
“Sophie, you can tell Mommy anything.”
She started crying.
Not loudly.
The kind of crying children do when they are trying very hard not to be heard.
“He said you'd be mad.”
“I would never be mad at you.”
“He said grown-up secrets get people in trouble.”
I pulled her into my arms.
“You didn't do anything wrong.”
She buried her face against my shoulder.
Then she whispered:
“He says I have to remember the answers.”
I froze.
“What answers?”
But footsteps sounded behind us.
Mark.
Sophie immediately pulled away.
He smiled.
“Ready for bed, sweetheart?”
She nodded.
I watched him pick her up.
He kissed the top of her head.
Then he looked at me.
Everything about his face seemed normal.
Too normal.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 8:10 the following evening, Mark took Sophie upstairs again.
I waited.
I listened to the water running.
Then I heard Mark laugh.
I stood in the hallway.
The bathroom door was slightly open.
A thin line of warm light spilled across the carpet.
I moved closer.
And looked inside.
Mark wasn't bathing Sophie.
He was kneeling beside the tub.
In one hand he held a kitchen timer.
In the other was a small paper cup.
Sophie sat in the water with her knees pulled against her chest.
“Again,” Mark said calmly.
She shook her head.
“You know the rules.”
“I forgot.”
“The first answer.”
She stared at him.
Mark started the timer.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Sophie whispered something.
I couldn't hear.
Mark stopped the timer.
“Good.”
Then he held out the cup.
“Drink.”
My hand went numb.
I reached for my phone.
I didn't understand what I was seeing.
But I knew it wasn't a game.
I stepped backward without making a sound and called the police.
Then I stood there, staring at that half-open door.
Because whatever was happening inside that bathroom had been happening for much longer than one night.
And I suddenly realized something much worse.
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Mark wasn't teaching Sophie a game.
He was teaching her what to say.
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