In March 2009, a mother finally found the strength to clean out her 17-year-old daughter’s bedroom.
Three months after the girl took her own life.
She expected to find the usual teenage clutter, old makeup, school papers, clothes that still smelled like her perfume.
She didn’t expect to find a tiny camera hidden behind the mirror, still recording.
When she played back the footage, she discovered her daughter’s final weeks weren’t what she thought, and the man she’d married just two years ago had been watching every move.
What she heard on those recordings would shatter everything she believed about her daughter’s death, her marriage, and the man sleeping in her bed every night.
The cardboard boxes sat stacked in the hallway for two weeks before Patty could bring herself to touch them.
March in Ohio meant gray skies and that bone deep cold that made everything feel harder than it should.
She’d bought the boxes at Dollar General with shaking hands, telling the cashier they were for spring cleaning like that made it normal, like packing up your dead daughter’s life was something you did when the weather warmed up.
Khloe’s bedroom door had stayed closed since January.
Dennis had offered to handle it, said it might be too much for her the way he said most things now.
Gentle but firm, like she was fragile glass he had to keep from breaking.
But this wasn’t his job.
Chloe wasn’t his daughter.
Patty turned the brass handle at 217 p.m.
on a Tuesday when Dennis was at work and the house felt quiet enough to breathe in.
The smell hit her first.
That mix of vanilla body spray and the lavender candles Khloe burned while doing homework.
Still there, trapped in the curtains and the bed sheets Patty hadn’t been able to wash.
The room looked exactly like Khloe left it.
Backpack slumped by the desk.
Jeans draped over the chair.
A half empty water bottle on the nightstand.
Lipstick stain still visible on the rim.
Patty’s chest went tight.
Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.
She forced herself to step inside.
The first box was easy.
Textbooks, school supplies, the collection of ceramic horses Khloe had loved when she was 12, but pretended to outgrow.
Things that didn’t carry weight beyond their physical presence.
The second box was harder.
Clothes that still held her shape.
The hoodie she wore every Friday.
The dress she’d bought for homecoming but never got to wear.
By the third box, Patty was crying.
Not the sharp cutting sobs from the funeral, but the slow, steady leak that came when grief settled into your bones and decided to stay.
She was folding a pair of jeans when her elbow knocked against the mirror on Khloe’s dresser.
It shifted, tilting at an odd angle.
When Patty reached to straighten it, her fingers brushed something hard taped to the back of the glass.
small, rectangular, about the size of a matchbox.
She pulled the mirror away from the wall, turned it around.
A tiny black device was stuck to the backing with clear tape, wires thin as hair running down to a small battery pack.
Her stomach dropped.
It was a camera, digital, the kind you’d see in spy movies, except this was real, and it was in her daughter’s bedroom, and someone had put it there.
Patty’s hand shook as she peeled it free.
The device was warm.
Not hot, but warm like it had been running.
A small LED light pulsed red near the lens, still recording.
She stared at it, mind racing.
Who would put a camera in Khloe’s room? When? How long had it been there? The questions piled up like snow, each one making it harder to think clearly.
She turned the device over in her palm.
No markings, no brand name, just a micro SD card slot and a USB port smaller than her pinky nail.
Her laptop was downstairs in the kitchen.
Dennis would be home in 3 hours.
Patty closed Khloe’s bedroom door behind her.
The camera clutched so tight in her fist that the plastic edges cut into her palm.
She didn’t know what she was about to see.
She only knew that someone had been watching her daughter.
and now she was going to watch them back.
The laptop took forever to boot up.
Or maybe time just moved differently when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Patty sat at the kitchen table, the tiny camera beside her coffee mug, like some obscene paper weight.
The red light had finally stopped blinking when she’d removed the battery, but she could still feel it watching her.
Outside, March wind rattled the windows.
The house felt too quiet, too empty, the way it had since January.
When Khloe’s laugh stopped echoing down the hallways, she slid the micro SD card into the laptop’s port.
Her finger hovered over the trackpad.
What if she didn’t want to know? What if ignorance was the only mercy she had left? But Khloe deserved better than a mother who looked away.
The card contained 847 video files organized by date.
The oldest was from November 2008, 4 months before Khloe died.
4 months of surveillance she’d never known about.
Patty’s throat went dry.
She clicked on the most recent file dated January 15th.
3 days before Khloe took her own life.
The video opened with a wide shot of Khloe’s bedroom from the mirror’s angle, clear enough to see everything, the bed, the desk, the window, where afternoon light filtered through blue curtains.
Khloe appeared in frame at 4:23 p.m.
Backpack slung over her shoulder.
She looked tired, more than tired, hollowed out, like someone had scraped away everything bright and left only the outline.
She dropped her bag and sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands.
That’s when Patty heard the footsteps.
Heavy boots on the stairs coming closer.
Dennis appeared in the doorway, still wearing his work clothes, jeans, and the blue button-down he always said made him look professional.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice warm, almost fatherly.
Khloe’s shoulders tensed.
She didn’t look up.
“How was school?” Dennis stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“Fine,” Khloe mumbled.
Dennis moved closer, sat on the bed beside her.
“Too close.
His hand found her shoulder.
You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.
Chloe shifted away from his touch.
I’m fine, Dennis.
It’s just your mom worries.
And so do I.
You’ve been so quiet lately.
Patty’s stomach twisted.
She remembered that conversation.
Dennis telling her that Khloe was going through a phase that teenage girls were naturally moody.
He’d been so understanding, so patient.
On screen, Dennis’s hand moved to Khloe’s back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.
“I know it’s hard,” he said, voice dropping lower.
“Living with someone new in the house, but I care about you, Chloe, more than you know.
” Khloe pulled away completely, standing up fast.
“I have homework.
” “Of course you do.
” Dennis smiled, but something cold flickered behind his eyes.
You’re such a good student, so focused, so attentive.
The way he said attentive, made Patty’s skin crawl.
I should let you work, Dennis continued, standing slowly.
“But Chloe,” she turned reluctant.
“Remember what we talked about about keeping family business private? your mom.
She has enough stress at work.
She doesn’t need to worry about every little thing, does she? Khloe’s face went pale.
She nodded once quick.
Good girl.
Dennis left, closing the door behind him.
Khloe stood frozen for a full minute.
Then she walked to her desk, opened a notebook, and wrote something Patty couldn’t see from the camera’s angle.
She tore out the page, folded it small, and tucked it under her mattress.
The video ended.
Patty stared at the black screen, her coffee gone cold, her hands trembling so hard she had to grip the table to steady herself.
Dennis had been alone with Chloe multiple times.
And he’d made sure she stayed quiet about it.
She clicked on another file, then another, each one worse than the last, each one showing her daughter shrinking a little more, Dennis growing a little bolder.
And in every single video, he reminded Khloe to keep their conversations private to protect her mother from unnecessary worry.
By the time Patty heard Dennis’s truck in the driveway, she’d watched 17 files and wanted to vomit.
She ejected the SD card, slipped it into her pocket, and closed the laptop.
When Dennis walked through the front door at 6:30, she was stirring pasta sauce like nothing had changed.
Hey honey,” he said, kissing her cheek.
“How was your day?” Patty forced a smile.
“Fine, just fine.
” But her hand stayed in her pocket, fingers wrapped around the SD card that held her daughter’s final weeks.
And for the first time since January, she wondered if Khloe’s death really was suicide, or if someone had just made it look that way.
Patty barely slept.
She lay beside Dennis, listening to his steady breathing, the SD card hidden in her jewelry box like a loaded gun.
Every time he shifted in his sleep, her body went rigid.
Had those same hands touched her daughter? Had that same voice whispered threats in Khloe’s ear.
At 3:17 a.
m.
, she gave up on sleep and crept downstairs.
Dennis’s laptop sat on the kitchen counter, the one he used for work emails, and never let her touch.
She needed to see more of those files.
All of them.
But first, she needed to know what Khloe had written in that notebook, the page she’d hidden under her mattress.
Patty climbed the stairs like a ghost, avoiding the creaky third step that always gave her away.
Khloe’s door was still closed, the boxes from yesterday stacked in the hallway like tombstones.
She slipped inside, heart hammering.
The mattress was heavier than she expected.
She lifted one corner, fingers groping in the dark space beneath.
Nothing.
She tried the other side.
Still nothing.
Then her hand brushed paper.
Not just one page, but a whole stack bound with a rubber band.
She pulled them out, hands shaking.
Even in the dim light from the hallway, she could see Khloe’s handwriting.
Neat at first, then progressively more frantic as the pages went on.
The first entry was dated November 3rd, 2008.
Dennis keeps coming into my room when mom’s at work.
He says he wants to check on me, but he stays too long.
Sits on my bed, asks weird questions about school, about boys, about if I’ve ever been kissed.
makes me uncomfortable, but maybe I’m overreacting.
Mom seems happy with him.
November 15th.
He touched my shoulder today while I was doing homework.
Let his hand stay there too long.
When I moved away, he laughed and said I was jumpy.
Said I remind him of mom when she was young.
Made my skin crawl.
December 2nd.
Found him going through my dresser when I got home early.
said he was helping mom with laundry, but my clothes were folded weird and some of my underwear was missing.
Confronted him and he got angry.
Said I was accusing him of things and that I should be grateful he cares enough to help around the house.
Made me feel crazy.
Patty’s hands shook so hard she could barely hold the pages.
December 18th.
He knows I suspect something.
Keeps making comments about how fragile mom is.
How the divorce from dad almost broke her.
Says if I upset her again, she might not recover this time.
Says some secrets are better kept buried.
I think he’s threatening me.
January 5th.
He showed me pictures today of me changing clothes.
Said he accidentally saw me through the door crack, but something about his smile made me think it wasn’t accidental.
Asked if I wanted mom to see them.
asked if I wanted her to know her new husband finds her teenage daughter interesting.
I wanted to throw up.
January 10th.
I can’t eat, can’t sleep.
He’s in my head all the time now.
Keeps talking about how much he cares about our family, how he’d do anything to protect what we have.
Yesterday, he said mom would probably blame herself if anything happened to me.
Said grief makes people do unpredictable things.
I think he wants me dead.
The final entry was dated January 12th, 3 days before the last video, 6 days before Khloe died.
I found the camera behind my mirror.
Don’t know how long it’s been there, but I’m too scared to remove it.
If he knows, I know he might hurt mom.
I can’t live with him watching me anymore, but I can’t destroy mom either.
She loves him.
She’d never believe me over him.
Maybe the only way to protect her is to make it stop.
Maybe if I’m gone, he’ll leave her alone.
Maybe she’ll be safer without me.
Patty dropped the pages, stumbled backward.
Khloe hadn’t killed herself because she was depressed.
She’d killed herself to protect her mother from the man she’d married.
The bedroom door creaked behind her.
Couldn’t sleep either.
Dennis stood in the doorway, hair messy, wearing just boxers and a t-shirt.
In the dim light, he looked younger, almost innocent.
Patty’s mouth went dry.
The pages were scattered at her feet.
Khloe’s words exposed like evidence at a crime scene.
I was just, she started.
Dennis stepped inside, eyes moving from her face to the papers on the floor.
What’s that you’re reading, honey? His voice was soft, gentle, the same tone he’d used in those videos.
Patty tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Her legs felt like water.
Dennis knelt down, gathering the pages with careful hands.
His eyes scanned Khloe’s words, and slowly, very slowly, he began to smile.
“Poor Chloe,” he said, standing up.
“Such an active imagination.
” He stepped closer.
Patty backed against the wall.
“You know how teenage girls are, Patty.
All that drama, all those stories they tell themselves.
another step closer.
“The question is,” Dennis whispered.
“What are you going to do with these stories now?” Patty’s hand found her phone in her pocket.
But Dennis was already moving faster than she expected.
He grabbed her wrist, squeezed until she gasped.
“I really hoped we wouldn’t have to have this conversation,” he said, his grip tightened.
“But I guess Khloe got her stubbornness from you.
” Dennis’s grip on her wrist felt like a vice, his fingers digging into bone.
Patty’s phone slipped from her other hand, clattering to the floor.
“You’re hurting me,” she whispered.
“I’m protecting us,” Dennis said, his voice still that sickening gentle tone.
“Just like I protected Chloe.
” The words hit like ice water.
“What do you mean?” Dennis smiled, the same smile she’d fallen in love with two years ago.
now twisted into something predatory.
She was going to ruin everything, Patty.
Going to tell you lies about me, make you choose between your daughter and your husband.
His thumb pressed against her pulse point.
I couldn’t let that happen.
Patty’s mind raced.
The journal entries, the camera, Khloe’s final weeks of terror.
She killed herself, Patty said.
But even as the words left her mouth, she knew they weren’t true.
Dennis laughed, a soft, horrible sound.
Poor little Chloe, so sad, so depressed, left that note about how she couldn’t take it anymore.
He leaned closer, breath hot against her ear.
“You never wondered why she used my computer to type it? Why she didn’t write it by hand like everything else?” Patty’s stomach lurched.
She tried to pull away, but Dennis’s grip tightened.
“She was going to expose me,” he continued.
had this whole plan to show you the videos, the photos.
Thought she was so smart, hiding that journal under her mattress.
He chuckled.
But I was always three steps ahead.
You killed her.
I saved our marriage, Dennis corrected.
I saved you from the pain of knowing what your daughter really thought of me, what she was planning to do to us.
Tears burned Patty’s eyes.
She was protecting me from you.
She was a stupid girl who didn’t understand how good she had it.
Dennis’s voice hardened.
Do you know how many stepdads would have been as patient as I was? How many would have given her so many chances to just keep quiet and be grateful? Patty felt Bile rise in her throat.
You’re sick.
I’m practical.
He released her wrist, but stepped closer, backing her against the wall.
And now you have a choice to make.
The room felt smaller, airless.
Khloe’s belongings surrounded them.
Clothes, books, pieces of a life cut short by the man standing inches away.
We can handle this the easy way, Dennis said.
You forget what you read.
We pack up Khloe’s things together.
We grieve together.
We move on together.
His hand touched her cheek, gentle as a lover’s caress.
Or we can handle this the hard way.
And trust me, Patty, you don’t want to know what the hard way looks like.
Patty’s phone buzzed against the floor, a text message.
Dennis glanced down, eyes narrowing.
Who’s texting you at 4 in the morning? Patty’s heart leaped.
David, her brother always was an early riser, probably heading out for his morning run.
Dennis bent to pick up the phone, thumbs swiping across the screen.
Hope you’re doing okay today.
Love you, sis.
He read aloud.
How sweet.
David, checking on his grieving sister.
He looked up, eyes cold.
You know what I think, Patty? I think you should text him back.
Tell him you’re fine.
Tell him you don’t need any visitors today.
He held out the phone.
When she didn’t take it, his expression darkened.
Text him now.
Patty’s hand shook as she took the phone.
She started typing, mind racing.
I’m okay.
Just having a hard morning cleaning out Khloe’s room.
She hesitated, thumb hovering over the send button.
Send it, Dennis ordered.
Instead, she deleted the message and typed something else.
Need help.
Come now.
Emergency.
She hit send before Dennis could stop her.
His face went from confusion to rage in less than a second.
He grabbed the phone, read the message, then looked at her with eyes that promised violence.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarled.
“The gentle mask was gone completely.
” “Now, this was who he really was, who Khloe had seen in those final weeks.
” “David lives 20 minutes away,” Dennis said, advancing on her.
“Plenty of time to clean this up.
” Patty bolted for the door, but Dennis caught her arm, spun her around.
She crashed into Khloe’s dresser.
makeup and jewelry scattering across the floor.
“You want to know what really happened to your daughter?” Dennis hissed, pinning her against the wall.
“She came home early that day, found me going through her things, started screaming about cameras and pictures, and how she was going to tell you everything.
” His hands closed around her throat.
So, I helped her understand that some secrets are worth dying for.
Patty clawed at his hands, gasping.
Black spots danced at the edges of her vision.
“The pills were easy,” Dennis continued.
Crushed up in her soda, she was unconscious in minutes.
The note was even easier.
I’d been watching her type her homework for months.
Knew exactly how she phrased things.
Patty’s phone buzzed from where it had fallen.
Once, twice, three times.
David was coming.
Dennis heard it, too.
His grip loosened just enough for Patty to suck in a breath.
Looks like your brother wants to play hero, he said.
Too bad he’s about to find both his sister and his niece couldn’t handle their grief.
He pressed harder.
Patty’s vision started to gray, but somewhere in the distance, she heard the rumble of David’s truck in the driveway.
Her brother was here, and Dennis had just confessed to murdering her daughter.
The sound of David’s truck door slamming shut echoed through the house like a gunshot.
Dennis’s hands loosened around Patty’s throat just enough for her to gasp in air.
His head snapped toward the window, calculating.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Patty’s vision cleared slowly, the black spots fading.
Her throat felt raw, crushed, but she was alive.
David’s voice boomed from downstairs.
“Patty, you okay? Your text scared the hell out of me.
” Heavy footsteps on the front porch.
The jingle of keys.
David still had the spare from when he’d helped her move in with Dennis.
Dennis’s eyes darted between Patty and the bedroom door, mind racing.
Then that sick smile returned.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he whispered.
“You’re going to tell your brother you’re fine, that you were just having a moment, that you texted him by mistake.
” The front door opened downstairs.
David’s work boots on the hardwood.
“Patty, where are you?” Dennis grabbed Patty’s chin, forced her to look at him.
You say one wrong word, one hint about what you found, and David joins Chloe.
I’ll make it look like a murder suicide.
Grieving brother couldn’t handle losing his niece, snapped, killed his sister, then himself.
Patty’s blood went cold.
She knew he meant it.
Knew he’d already killed once, and made it look like something else.
And then, Dennis continued, “Poor widowerower Dennis has to start over.
Maybe move away.
Maybe find another lonely woman with a teenage daughter.
” “Patty,” David’s voice was closer now on the stairs.
Dennis released her, stepped back.
In the dim light, he looked almost normal again, just a concerned husband checking on his grieving wife.
“Remember,” he whispered.
David’s life depends on how good an actress you are.
David appeared in the doorway, still in his running clothes, face flushed with worry and cold air.
He was bigger than Dennis, broader shoulders, thicker arms from 20 years of construction work.
But Dennis had surprise and desperation and nothing left to lose.
Jesus, Patty, you look terrible, David said, stepping into the room.
What’s going on? Your text said emergency.
Patty opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
Dennis moved beside her, slipped his arm around her waist like a supportive husband.
“She’s having a rough morning,” he said smoothly.
“Finally decided to clean out Khloe’s room.
Hit her harder than expected.
” “David’s eyes narrowed, taking in the scene.
the scattered papers on the floor, the overturned boxes, his sister’s red, bruised throat.
“What happened to your neck?” he asked.
Dennis answered before Patty could.
“She had a panic attack.
I was trying to calm her down.
Keep her from hyperventilating.
You know how she gets.
” But David knew his sister better than anyone.
And he knew what finger marks looked like.
He stepped closer, ignoring Dennis completely.
Patty, look at me.
She met his eyes, tried to speak.
Dennis’s arm tightened around her waist, a warning.
I’m, she started, voice barely a whisper.
I’m David waited, patient, the way he’d been when they were kids, and she needed time to find her words.
Behind him, Dennis’s free hand moved toward his back pocket.
Patty glimpsed the handle of something tucked into his waistband.
A knife, or maybe a screwdriver from his toolbox.
David was unarmed, unprepared, about to die because she’d asked for help.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Dennis went rigid beside her.
“Patty, I found something,” she continued, gaining strength.
“About Chloe, about what really happened.
” “Patty, don’t.
” Dennis warned, but his voice had lost its gentle mask.
Now it was just threat.
David heard it too.
His stance shifted, weight balanced, hands loose at his sides.
20 years of construction had taught him to read danger.
“What did you find?” he asked, eyes never leaving Dennis.
Patty pulled away from Dennis’s grip.
Her legs shook but held her up.
“She didn’t kill herself,” she said.
“He murdered her.
” Dennis’s hand flew to his back pocket, but David was already moving.
He lunged forward, shoulder checking Dennis into the wall.
The weapon, a box cutter, skittered across the floor.
They hit the ground hard, David’s weight pinning Dennis down.
But Dennis was desperate, fighting like a cornered animal.
He clawed at David’s eyes, drove his knee up toward David’s ribs.
“Patty, get out of here!” David grunted, deflecting Dennis’s wild swings.
“Call the cops!” But Patty didn’t run.
Instead, she dropped to her knees, gathering Khloe’s scattered journal pages with shaking hands.
Evidence, proof, her daughter’s words.
Dennis managed to roll away from David, scrambled toward the box cutter.
David caught his ankle, dragged him back.
“You don’t understand,” Dennis panted, thrashing.
“She was going to destroy everything.
The girl was poison.
” David’s fist connected with Dennis’s jaw.
The crack echoed through the room.
She was 17 years old.
David snarled.
Dennis spat blood.
She was a little who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.
David hit him again and again.
Patty found her phone, dialed 911 with trembling fingers.
911.
What’s your emergency? My husband killed my daughter, she said, voice steady for the first time in months.
And I have proof.
On the floor, Dennis had stopped fighting.
Blood trickled from his nose, his lips split open, but his eyes were still full of rage, still calculating.
“You’ll never prove it,” he wheezed.
“It’s just the word of a dead girl and her crazy mother.
” Patty looked down at him.
This man she’d shared her bed with, trusted with her life, let into her daughter’s world.
“I don’t need to prove it,” she said quietly.
You already confessed.
She held up her phone, screen glowing.
The voice recorder app had been running the entire time.
Dennis’s face went white as he realized what that meant.
His confession, his threats, his admission of murder.
All of it captured in his own voice.
David smiled grimly, blood on his knuckles.
Looks like Khloe gets the last word after all.
The paramedics arrived first, then the police, then Detective Martinez, a woman in her 40s with tired eyes and a notepad that had seen too many domestic calls.
Dennis sat handcuffed in the back of a patrol car, his split lip cleaned up, his arrogance intact.
Even through the window, Patty could see him talking to his lawyer on the phone, probably spinning some story about griefstricken widows and their delusional accusations.
But the recording didn’t lie.
Detective Martinez sat across from Patty at the kitchen table, the same table where she’d watched those first horrifying videos just hours ago.
David stood behind her chair, one protective hand on her shoulder.
I need you to walk me through everything, Martinez said gently.
From the beginning, Patty’s voice was hoar from Dennis’s hands around her throat, but she forced out every detail.
The camera hidden behind Khloe’s mirror.
The videos showing Dennis’s escalating behavior.
The journal entries documenting months of psychological abuse.
“He made her feel crazy,” Patty said, touching her bruised neck.
Made her think she was overreacting, that she was the problem, just like he did to me.
Martinez nodded, making notes.
Classic predator behavior.
Isolation, gaslighting, threats against loved ones.
She looked up from her notepad.
Mrs.
Reynolds, I have to ask, did you suspect anything before today? Any signs that your daughter was being abused? The question Patty had been dreading.
The guilt that had been eating her alive since January.
I thought she was just being a teenager, she whispered.
Moody, distant.
Dennis said it was normal, that she’d warm up to him eventually.
Her voice cracked.
I chose to believe him because it was easier than admitting I’d brought a monster into our home.
David’s hand squeezed her shoulder.
You couldn’t have known.
I should have known.
Tears burned her eyes.
I was her mother.
I was supposed to protect her.
Detective Martinez leaned forward.
Mrs.
Reynolds, your daughter spent months protecting you.
She knew you loved Dennis.
She knew exposing him would destroy your happiness, so she chose to sacrifice herself rather than hurt you.
The words hit like a physical blow.
Patty doubled over, sobbing.
That recording you made, Martinez continued, “And that journal, they’re going to put Dennis away for life.
Khloe’s death won’t be ruled a suicide anymore.
It’ll be what it always was, murder.
Outside, more police cars arrived.
Crime scene texts with their cameras and evidence bags.
The house filled with strangers cataloging the remnants of her daughter’s life.
Martinez’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, frowned.
What is it? David asked.
Dennis is claiming self-defense.
Says you attacked him when he found Patty having a psychotic episode in Khloe’s room.
She looked at Patty.
says the recording is out of context, that he was trying to calm down a delusional woman.
” Patty’s stomach dropped.
“Will that work?” “Not a chance,” Martinez said firmly.
“We found the camera exactly where you said it would be.
The SD card contains hours of footage documenting systematic abuse.
” “And that journal?” She shook her head.
“Your daughter documented everything, Mrs.
Reynolds.
Dates, times, specific incidents.
It reads like a textbook case of predatory grooming.
A crime scene tech appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Detective, you need to see this.
They followed him upstairs to Dennis’s home office, a room Patty rarely entered because he said he needed privacy for work calls.
The tech pointed to Dennis’s computer now displaying a folder full of image files.
Password was Chloe123, the tech said grimly.
We found over 300 photos and videos, not just of the victim, but of other young girls.
Some appear to be taken without consent through windows, changing rooms, public spaces.
Patty’s legs gave out.
David caught her before she hit the floor.
There’s more, the tech continued.
Chat logs with other predators, discussion of techniques for grooming victims, and he hesitated.
plans for after Khloe’s death.
He was already researching single mothers in the area, women with teenage daughters.
Detective Martinez cursed under her breath.
This wasn’t his first victim, and Khloe wasn’t going to be his last.
Patty stared at the computer screen at the evidence of Dennis’s true nature.
All those nights she’d lain beside him, never knowing what kind of monster shared her bed.
“How many?” she whispered.
“We’re still analyzing the data,” Martinez said.
“But Mrs.
Reynolds, your daughter may have saved more lives than just yours.
By documenting everything, by forcing Dennis to act before he was ready, she disrupted his entire operation.
” They made Patty sit in the living room while the texts processed Dennis’s office.
David never left her side, bringing her water, tissues, whatever she needed to get through each horrible revelation.
By evening, the house was quiet again.
The evidence collected, the statements given, the immediate crisis over.
But Patty knew the real work was just beginning.
“I have to sell this house,” she said to David as they sat on the couch, takeout containers untouched on the coffee table.
“You don’t have to decide that now.
” “Yes, I do.
” She looked around the living room where she’d built a life with a murderer.
Every room in this place is contaminated.
Every memory is a lie.
David nodded slowly.
Where will you go? Patty was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, “I want to see that journal again.
All of it.
I want to read every word Khloe wrote.
” Patty dot dot.
She was trying to tell me something, David.
For months, she was leaving me clues.
and I was too blind to see them.
She turned to face her brother.
I can’t bring her back, but I can make sure her story is heard.
I can make sure other mothers recognize the signs I missed.
Detective Martinez had left her card along with contact information for victim services, grief counseling, and a support group for families affected by domestic violence.
But first, Patty needed to do something else.
She needed to go back to Khloe’s room one more time, not to pack boxes or sort belongings, but to apologize to her daughter, and to promise that Dennis Krueger would never hurt another family again.
Khloe’s room felt different now, not like a shrine to the dead, but like a crime scene that had finally been acknowledged.
The police tape was gone, but the evidence of their search remained.
Fingerprint powder dusted the mirror frame.
The camera’s hiding spot had been photographed from every angle.
Even the carpet showed indentations where heavy equipment had been positioned.
Patty sat on the edge of Khloe’s bed holding the journal that Detective Martinez had returned to her that afternoon.
The pages felt fragile in her hands like they might crumble if she gripped too tight.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty room.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t see what he was doing to you.
” David stood in the doorway, giving her space, but close enough to help if she needed it.
“She knew you loved her,” he said quietly.
“Patty opened the journal to a page she hadn’t read before.
One dated December 24th, Christmas Eve.
” “Mom made her famous sugar cookies today.
” Dennis kept helping her in the kitchen, touching her waist, whispering things that made her laugh.
She’s so happy with him.
Happier than she’s been since Dad left.
I can’t be the one to destroy that, even if it destroys me.
The words blurred through Patty’s tears.
I used to think love meant protecting someone from pain.
Now I think maybe love means carrying pain so they don’t have to.
Mom carried enough when dad cheated on her.
She doesn’t need to carry this, too.
She was protecting me, Patty said, voice broken.
Right up until the end, she was protecting me.
Her phone rang.
Detective Martinez.
Mrs.
Reynolds, I have an update.
Dennis’s lawyer is pushing for a plea deal.
Patty’s grip tightened on the phone.
What kind of deal? 25 to life for voluntary manslaughter.
He’s claiming he gave Khloe the pills to calm her down after she threatened to hurt herself, not to kill her.
That’s I know.
And we’re not taking it.
The evidence is too strong.
The journal, the videos, the recording you made, it all points to premeditated murder.
We’re going for life without parole.
After Martinez hung up, Patty sat in the silence of her daughter’s room, feeling the weight of everything that had happened.
3 months ago, she thought her biggest problem was helping Khloe through teenage depression.
Now she knew her daughter had died trying to save her from a predator.
David’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at it, frowning.
What? Patty asked.
It’s a text from an unknown number.
He showed her the screen.
Your sister should have kept her mouth shut.
Some secrets are better buried.
Patty’s blood went cold.
Dennis? He’s in jail.
No phone access.
But even as David said it, they both realized the truth.
Dennis hadn’t been working alone.
The chat logs on his computer proved that.
There were others, a whole network of predators who shared information, techniques, victims, and now they knew Patty had exposed one of their own.
“We need to call Martinez,” Patty said.
But before David could dial, her own phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered without thinking.
“Hello?” Silence.
Then a voice she didn’t recognize.
Male, older, with a slight southern accent.
Your daughter was a pretty little thing.
Shame she had to be so stubborn.
Patty’s hand shook.
Who is this? A friend of Dennis’s.
He told us all about you, Patricia.
About your house, your routine, your job at the bank.
The voice was calm, conversational.
He was supposed to keep things quiet, handle his business like a professional.
But now you’ve made things complicated.
David was already dialing 911.
“What do you want?” Patty asked.
“What we’ve always wanted for people to mind their own business.
For grieving mothers to stay grieving instead of playing detective.
” The line went dead.
David was talking rapidly to the dispatcher, giving their address, explaining about the threats, but Patty barely heard him.
Her mind was racing through everything Martinez had told her about Dennis’s computer.
the network of predators, the other victims.
This wasn’t over.
Dennis might be in jail, but his associates were still out there, still hunting, still sharing information about potential targets.
And now they saw her as a threat.
We need to leave, she told David when he finished the call.
Tonight, the police are sending a car.
That’s not enough.
Patty stood up, adrenaline overriding her exhaustion.
These people killed my daughter to keep their secrets.
You think they’ll stop at threatening phone calls? She moved around Khloe’s room, grabbing the few items that couldn’t be replaced.
The journal, a photo from Khloe’s dresser, the small stuffed elephant she’d slept with as a child.
“Where will we go?” David asked.
“I don’t know, but we can’t stay here.
” As if to emphasize her point, a car drove slowly past the house outside.
Too slowly.
The engine cut off somewhere down the street.
David peered through the blinds.
Dark sedan.
Can’t see the plates.
Patty’s phone rang again.
This time she recognized the number.
Detective Martinez.
Don’t go home tonight, Martinez said without preamble.
We intercepted communications indicating you’re being watched.
I’m sending a team to pick you up.
How did they find out about the investigation so fast? Dennis made his phone call, probably used code words his associates would recognize.
These networks are sophisticated, Mrs.
Reynolds.
They have protocols for when members get arrested.
Through the window, they could see the dark sedan’s doors opening.
Two figures got out, but they stayed in the shadows between street lights.
Where’s that police car? David muttered.
As if summoned by his words, a patrol unit rounded the corner, lights flashing, but no siren.
The dark sedan’s doors immediately slammed shut.
The engine started.
By the time the patrol car reached their driveway, the sedan was gone.
But Patty knew they’d be back.
These people had invested too much in their network to let one grieving mother destroy it.
and Dennis, even locked up, was still a threat.
Still connected to predators who saw Khloe’s death as just another business expense.
Officer Collins knocked on their door, young and earnest and probably unprepared for what he was walking into.
Ma’am, Detective Martinez sent me to escort you to a safe location.
Patty looked around Khloe’s room one last time.
At the bed where her daughter had slept, at the desk where she’d done homework while Dennis watched from hidden cameras.
At the mirror that had concealed so many secrets.
Mom always said the truth would set you free, she whispered.
She picked up Khloe’s journal, holding it against her chest like armor.
She just never mentioned it might kill you first.
The safe house was a non-escript ranch home 20 m outside town.
The kind of place that looked abandoned from the street, but had reinforced doors and cameras hidden in every corner.
Detective Martinez met them there along with agent Sarah Mills from the FBI’s Crimes Against Children unit.
The federal involvement wasn’t reassuring.
It meant Dennis’s network was bigger than anyone had initially realized.
“How many are we talking about?” Patty asked as they sat around a kitchen table that had seen better days.
Agent Mills opened a thick file folder.
We’ve identified at least 12 individuals in direct communication with Dennis Krueger over the past 2 years.
The network spans four states and includes a retired police officer, two teachers, a youth pastor, and a man who runs a children’s photography business.
Patty’s stomach turned.
How many victims? We are still processing the data from Dennis’s computers, but preliminary count suggests over 40 potential victims.
Your daughter’s documentation is helping us identify girls who may have been too frightened to come forward.
The weight of that number settled over the room like smoke.
40 families who didn’t know their daughters had been targeted.
40 children who thought they were alone with their secrets.
The men who called you tonight, Martinez said, we believe they’re part of the inner circle, the ones who coordinate activities, share intelligence, eliminate threats.
Like Khloe, Patty said quietly.
Like Khloe, Agent Mills leaned forward.
Mrs.
Reynolds, I need to be direct with you.
These individuals see you as an existential threat.
Dennis broke protocol by keeping so much evidence on his personal computers.
By forcing him to act prematurely with your daughter, you’ve exposed their entire operation.
So what happens now? Now we use that to our advantage.
Mills’s voice took on a harder edge.
We want you to testify before a federal grand jury.
Help us build cases against every member of this network, but it means you’ll be a target until we can round them all up.
David had been quiet through most of the briefing, but now he spoke up.
How long are we talking about? Could be months.
Could be longer.
These people are patient.
They plan for contingencies.
Patty thought about Khloe’s journal about her daughter’s final weeks spent in terror, too afraid to speak because she thought it would destroy her mother’s happiness.
I’ll do it, she said.
Patty, David started.
I’ll do whatever it takes to stop them.
Her voice was steady, certain.
Khloe died thinking she had to protect me.
I won’t let her sacrifice be for nothing.
Agent Mills nodded.
We’ll need you to wear a wire for any future contact with Dennis or his associates.
Phone calls, visits, anything where they might reveal information about other victims or network operations.
You want me to talk to Dennis? if he reaches out.
Men like him can’t resist the need to control the narrative, especially when they feel cornered.
He may try to manipulate you, convince you to recant your statement, or remember things differently.
The thought of speaking to Dennis again made Patty’s skin crawl, but if it meant justice for Khloe and protection for other daughters, she’d do it.
Martinez’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, frowned.
What? Agent Mills asked.
Dennis’s lawyer just filed a motion claiming prosecutorial misconduct.
Says we coerced a confession from a grieving widow and that the recording should be inadmissible.
Patty’s heart sank.
Can they do that? They can try, but the physical evidence backs up your testimony.
The camera, the journal, the computer files.
It all corroborates what Dennis said in that recording.
Agent Mills closed her file folder.
There’s something else.
We found evidence that Dennis was planning to move on from your family.
He’d already identified his next target, a divorced mother in the next county with a 15-year-old daughter.
The words hit like a slap.
While Patty had been mourning Khloe, Dennis had been hunting his next victim.
The mother’s name is Lisa Cameron, Mills continued.
Works at a grocery store.
Recently got out of an abusive relationship.
Classic profile for these predators.
Vulnerable women looking for stability.
Does she know? We contacted her this morning.
She’s agreed to cooperate with the investigation.
Apparently, Dennis had already made contact through a dating app, was planning to meet her next week.
Patty closed her eyes, imagining another mother, another daughter, walking unknowingly into Dennis’s web of manipulation and violence.
“How do we stop them all?” she asked.
“One at a time,” Agent Mills said.
“And we start with Dennis.
” That night, alone in the safe house bedroom, Patty opened Khloe’s journal to the very last entry, one she hadn’t been able to read before, written in her daughter’s increasingly shaky handwriting.
January 15th.
I know what I have to do now.
Not because I want to die, but because I can’t live knowing he’ll hurt other girls if I don’t stop him.
Mom will blame herself.
And that breaks my heart.
But maybe someday she’ll understand.
Maybe someday she’ll find this journal and know that I wasn’t giving up.
I was fighting back the only way I knew how.
If you’re reading this, Mom, it means you found the camera.
It means you know the truth.
Don’t let him convince you I was sick or broken or beyond help.
I was your daughter and I was strong enough to choose sacrifice over surrender.
Make him pay.
Make them all pay.
And know that wherever I am, I’m proud of you for being brave enough to look for the truth.
I love you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t find another way.
Love, Chloe.
P.
S.
Check the heating vent behind my bed.
I left something there that might help.
Patty’s hands shook as she sat down the journal.
She walked to Khloe’s bed, knelt down, and felt along the baseboard until she found the heating vent.
The screws had been loosened.
The grate lifted away easily.
Inside was a small digital recorder, newer than the one in the camera with better sound quality.
And on it, Khloe had recorded everything.
Every conversation with Dennis, every threat, every moment of psychological torture that had driven her to believe death was her only escape.
But more than that, she’d recorded phone calls Dennis made when he thought she was asleep.
Calls to men whose voices matched the one that had threatened Patty earlier.
Calls discussing other targets, other families, other daughters.
Khloe hadn’t just documented her own abuse.
She’d infiltrated Dennis’s entire network.
And now, 3 months after her death, she was about to bring them all down.
“Agent Mills stared at the digital recorder like it was a live grenade.
” “Your daughter recorded Dennis’s phone calls?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Patty nodded, cradling the device in her palms.
It was smaller than a pack of gum, the kind of thing a teenager could easily hide or carry without detection.
She was 17, Patty said, but she was smarter than any of us gave her credit for.
They’d moved back to the safe house kitchen, the recorder placed in the center of the table like evidence at a trial.
Detective Martinez had her notebook out, pen poised.
Agent Mills had called in a tech specialist who was driving in from the field office.
“Before we listen to this,” Mills said carefully.
“I need you to understand what it might contain.
” “If Khloe recorded Dennis talking to his associates, we could be looking at conspiracy charges, evidence of other crimes, names, and locations of victims we don’t even know about yet.
” “Play it,” Patty said without hesitation.
Mills pressed the first file.
Static.
Then Khloe’s whispered voice.
December 10th, 2008.
Dennis thinks I’m asleep.
He’s on the phone in his office.
Then Dennis’s voice, clearer than in any of the previous recordings.
She’s getting suspicious, asking too many questions about why I’m always checking on her.
A male voice responded grally.
Older.
Maybe it’s time to move on.
find a new family.
I’m not ready.
The mother’s perfect, completely trusting, and the girl, she’s exactly the type we discussed.
Patty’s hands clenched into fists.
They discussed her daughter like she was merchandise.
The grally voice again.
You’re getting sloppy, Dennis.
Emotional attachment is dangerous in our line of work.
It’s not attachment, it’s investment.
I’ve spent months setting this up.
The surveillance equipment alone cost is worth nothing if you end up in prison.
Handle the girl or we’ll handle her for you.
The recording ended.
Agent Mills looked up from her notes.
That voice.
We need to run it through voice recognition software.
See if it matches any of the suspects in our database.
There’s more, Patty said, scrolling through the files on the recorder’s tiny screen.
23 recordings total.
They played the next one.
Dennis again, but this time the conversation was different.
The Cameron woman took the bait.
I’m meeting her next Thursday.
What about your current situation? Nearly resolved, the girl won’t be a problem much longer.
A chill ran down Patty’s spine.
This was recorded January 12th, 3 days before Khloe died.
Dennis had already decided to kill her daughter while planning his next victim.
Detective Martinez’s phone rang.
She stepped away to answer it, but Patty could hear fragments of the conversation.
Federal warrant, multi-state operation.
Need more units.
Agent Mills paused the recording.
Mrs.
Reynolds, this changes everything.
We’re not just talking about prosecuting Dennis anymore.
This is RICO territory.
organized criminal enterprise spanning multiple jurisdictions.
“How many more girls?” Patty asked.
“We won’t know until we analyze all the recordings, but based on what we’ve heard so far.
” Mills shook her head.
“Your daughter may have single-handedly documented the largest predator network we’ve ever encountered.
” Martinez returned, her face grim.
“That was my captain.
Three more families have come forward since news of Dennis’s arrest broke.
Parents who suspected something but were afraid to speak up.
Afraid of what? The same things you experienced.
Threats.
Intimidation.
One family said their teenage daughter killed herself last year after months of behavioral problems.
Now they’re wondering if it really was suicide.
The weight of that revelation settled over the room.
How many Khloe’s were there? How many families destroyed by predators who knew exactly how to manipulate grief and guilt? Patty looked at the recorder at her daughter’s final gift to the world.
“Play the rest,” she said.
They worked through the night, documenting names, locations, methods of operation.
Kloe had been methodical in her surveillance, noting times and dates, cross-referencing conversations with activities she’d observed.
By dawn, they had identified 16 members of Dennis’s network across four states.
Phone numbers, meeting locations, even a few license plate numbers Khloe had somehow managed to record.
“How did she get all this?” Mills asked, exhaustion evident in her voice.
Patty thought about her daughter.
“Quiet, observant, always listening even when adults thought she wasn’t paying attention.
She was protecting other girls,” Patty said.
Even while Dennis was abusing her, she was thinking about the daughters who would come after her.
Agent Mills closed her laptop.
We have enough here to take down the entire network, but we need to move fast.
Once word spreads that we have these recordings, they’ll scatter.
What about Dennis? Dennis is going to help us whether he wants to or not.
Mills’s smile was cold because now we have leverage.
We know about his associates, his methods, his future targets.
He can cooperate and maybe avoid the death penalty, or he can stay quiet and watch his entire organization crumble around him.
Martinez gathered her files.
There’s going to be a media circus when this breaks.
Multi-state predator network.
Teenage victim who documented everything.
Grieving mother who exposed it all.
You need to be prepared for that.
Patty thought about Khloe’s journal entry, the one where she wrote about making Dennis pay.
Making them all pay.
Let them come, she said.
Khloe’s story deserves to be heard, and maybe other mothers will recognize the signs I missed.
Her phone buzzed.
Text message from unknown number.
You should have taken our advice about keeping quiet.
Now your brother’s going to pay the price.
Patty’s blood went cold.
David.
Agent Mills was already on her radio calling for units to check on David’s location, but Patty knew with sick certainty that they might already be too late.
Dennis’s network didn’t just eliminate threats, they eliminated everything those threats cared about, and she had just painted a target on her brother’s back.
The call came at 6:43 a.
m.
David’s voice, steady but strained.
I’m okay, but they tried.
Agent Mills had the call on speaker, texts already tracing the number.
Patty gripped the phone so hard her knuckles went white.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Two men broke into my apartment around midnight.
I wasn’t there.
Stayed at Katie’s place after you texted me to lay low.
” Katie was David’s girlfriend, a nurse who worked night shifts.
But they trashed everything.
left a message spray painted on my bedroom wall.
“What did it say?” David’s voice dropped.
“Your sister talks too much.
Fix it or we will.
” Agent Mills was already coordinating with local police, but Patty knew the truth.
Dennis’s network was closing ranks, eliminating loose ends before the federal investigation could reach them.
“Where are you now?” Mills asked.
“Police station.
They’re keeping me here until you guys figure out next steps.
” Patty felt the familiar weight of guilt.
The same crushing responsibility she’d carried since Khloe’s death.
Everyone she loved became a target simply by loving her back.
This ends today, she said quietly.
Agent Mills looked up from her radio.
“What do you mean?” “I want to visit Dennis.
Wear a wire.
Get him to give up his associates.
” “Absolutely not.
It’s too dangerous.
They’re already trying to kill my brother.
How much more dangerous can it get? Mills shook her head.
These people don’t negotiate.
They eliminate threats.
Then we eliminate them first.
Patty’s voice hardened.
Dennis thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.
His ego won’t let him resist the chance to manipulate me one more time.
Detective Martinez had been quiet through most of the conversation, but now she spoke up.
She’s right.
Narcissists can’t help themselves.
especially when they think they’re in control.
Three hours later, Patty sat in the county jail visitors room, a wire taped to her chest under her sweater.
Agent Mills and Detective Martinez watched from an adjacent room, headphones on, recording equipment running.
Dennis entered an orange jumpsuit and shackles, but his smile was the same one that had charmed her two years ago, the same one that had fooled her into thinking he was safe.
Hello, Patty,” he said, settling into the plastic chair across from her.
“You look tired.
” “I haven’t been sleeping well.
” “Grief will do that.
” His voice carried mock sympathy.
Losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent.
The casual cruelty of it, referring to Khloe’s murder as if it were natural causes, made Patty’s stomach churn.
But she forced herself to stay calm.
“The FBI thinks you were part of some network,” she said.
“Some group that targets families.
” Dennis laughed.
“The FBI thinks a lot of things.
Doesn’t make them true.
” “They have recordings, Dennis.
Khloe recorded your phone calls.
” For the first time, his mask slipped just for a second, but long enough for Patty to see the rage underneath.
“Clever girl,” he said.
smarter than I gave her credit for.
Smart enough to document everything you did to her.
Smart enough to get herself killed.
Dennis leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper.
You want to know what really happened that night? She came at me with a kitchen knife, said she was going to cut my throat while you slept.
Patty’s hands trembled, but she kept her voice steady.
So, you drugged her.
I defended myself.
The pills were just to calm her down so we could talk rationally.
And when she was unconscious, you typed a suicide note on your computer.
Dennis’s smile returned.
Prove it.
I don’t have to.
Chloe already did.
Patty pulled out her phone, scrolled to a photo of the journal pages.
She documented everything, Dennis.
Every conversation, every threat, every time you told her to keep quiet to protect me.
Dennis stared at the phone screen, his face cycling through emotions.
Surprise, anger, calculation.
Even if that’s real, he said finally.
It’s just the word of a disturbed teenager against mine.
Along with video evidence and recordings of your phone calls and your computer files full of other victims.
Dennis was quiet for a long moment.
When he spoke again, his voice was different, colder, more calculating.
You think you’ve won something here, Patty? You think exposing me is going to bring Khloe back? I think it’s going to stop you from hurting other daughters.
There are always other daughters.
Dennis smiled.
And there are always men like me to find them.
You’ve disrupted one operation.
Congratulations.
But the demand never goes away.
Give me names, Patty said.
Help us stop the others.
Dennis laughed.
Why would I do that? Because your friends are already trying to kill my family because they see you as a liability now.
That hit home.
Dennis’s expression darkened.
They wouldn’t dare.
They broke into my brother’s apartment last night, left a message saying, “I talk too much.
” Patty leaned forward.
“How long before they decide you talk too much?” For the first time, Dennis looked genuinely worried.
“You don’t understand how this works,” he said.
“These aren’t street criminals.
These are professionals, doctors, lawyers, teachers, police officers.
They have resources you can’t imagine.
Then help me imagine them.
Give me names.
” Dennis was quiet for nearly a minute, weighing his options.
Finally, he spoke.
There’s a man in Tennessee runs a youth program for troubled kids.
Last name Morrison.
He’s the one who usually handles cleanup operations.
Patty’s heart raced.
Morrison.
That was a name from Khloe’s recordings.
What’s his first name? James.
James Morrison.
He’ll be very unhappy when he learns about those recordings.
anyone else? Dennis smiled, but there was fear behind it now.
Oh, Patty, you have no idea how deep this goes.
The visit ended 20 minutes later with Dennis giving up four more names, three locations, and enough details to keep federal investigators busy for months.
But as Patty walked back to the safe house, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Dennis had told her exactly what he wanted her to know.
that maybe even in jail, he was still three steps ahead.
Two weeks later, the raids began.
Simultaneous operations across four states, 12 arrests in the first day.
Evidence seized from homes, businesses, and storage facilities.
The news coverage was relentless.
Massive predator network exposed by teen victims secret recordings.
Khloe’s story, her courage, her sacrifice, her final gift to other potential victims, became a rallying cry for families affected by predatory abuse.
But for Patty, sitting in yet another safe house while the investigation continued, the victory felt hollow.
Dennis was right about one thing.
There would always be other daughters, other families targeted by men who saw children as commodities.
She couldn’t save Khloe, but maybe with her daughter’s help, she could save someone else’s.
The journal sat open on the table beside her, turned to Khloe’s final entry.
Make him pay.
Make them all pay.
Patty looked out the window at the ordinary suburban street where other mothers were getting their children ready for school, trusting that the adults in their lives would protect them.
I’m trying, baby, she whispered.
I’m trying.
And somewhere in a house she’d never see, a mother would notice the signs Patty had missed.
A daughter would find the courage Khloe had shown.
A predator would be stopped before another family was destroyed.
It wasn’t enough to bring Kloe back, but it was enough to make sure she hadn’t died for nothing.
The phone rang.
Agent Mills with an update on the investigation.
Patty answered on the first ring.
There was still work to do.
