My husband came home from his business trip a day early. Moments later, someone knocked on the front door. “It’s Dad, Mom!” a voice called out. But my 8-year-old daughter squeezed my hand and whispered, “Mom… that’s not Dad. We need to hide.” I pulled her into the kitchen cupboard. What followed shattered everything I thought I knew.

wet trees, painting the nightmare scene in surreal, strobe-light colors.

We sat there in the rain, the three of us huddled together over the body of the man who had worn my husband’s face, waiting for the world to make sense again.

End of Part 2

The hours that followed were a blur of flashing lights, police tape, and hot coffee that tasted like ash.

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