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For six years, my husband scrubbed our upstairs bathroom every morning, every evening, and once more before bed—and if anyone so much as touched the brass cover over the floor drain, he became a different man. I thought it was an odd obsession until my friend Rachel, a county medical examiner, walked out of that bathroom with no color left in her face. She caught my arm and whispered, “Claire, get Emma out of this house. Then call the police.”
Part 1 Rachel’s fingers were so cold that I felt them through the sleeve of my sweater. “What did you find?” “Not here.” Her...
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