“Please, arrest me. I’d rather go to jail than go back to that house…”

too deafening to ignore. I had requested an indefinite sabbatical, packed up my life, and moved to this aggressively upscale, aggressively quiet cul-de-sac. I was hunting for a sanctuary. Instead, I secured a front-row seat to a beautifully manicured, flawlessly executed horror show.

My gaze, sharply trained by years of clinical observation to identify continue reading …