I lay in our bed, forcing my breathing to stay slow and steady, my heart beating so loud I was sure Dererick could hear it from across the room. My eyes were barely cracked open, just enough to see him moving in the darkness. It was 2:17 a.m., and my husband was creeping around our bedroom, wearing latex gloves and carrying a small black bag I had never seen before.

Three hours earlier, I had done something that terrified me more than anything in my life. When Dererick handed me my nightly cup of chamomile tea—the same tea he had made for me every single night for the past month—I smiled and thanked him, just like always. But this time, when he went to brush his teeth, I poured every last drop down the bathroom sink and rinsed the cup clean. Then I climbed into bed and waited.

Now, watching him through my barely open eyelids, I knew I had been right. Dererick thought I was unconscious, knocked out cold by whatever he had been putting in my tea. He moved with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before. That scared me more than anything.

The whole nightmare had started three weeks ago, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I just thought I was going through a rough patch. Every morning, I would wake up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck—groggy, confused, sometimes finding myself in strange positions. My pajamas would be twisted, and I’d have no memory of moving.

At first, I blamed it on stress. Dererick had been traveling more for his job selling medical equipment, and I was working long hours on a big project for my graphic design business. But then my sister, Clare, called one Tuesday morning, her voice tight with worry.

“Anna, are you okay? You sounded really weird last night when we talked. Like you were drunk or something, but you said you hadn’t been drinking.”

I didn’t remember talking to Clare. I didn’t remember anything after drinking my tea and going to bed. That’s when the first cold finger of fear touched my spine.

I started paying closer attention. I noticed the strange, heavy sleep only happened on nights when Dererick was home. When he was traveling, I slept normally and woke up refreshed. The bruises were what really convinced me. Small, faint marks on my arms and legs that I couldn’t explain. When I asked Dererick, he looked concerned and suggested maybe I was sleepwalking. He even offered to take me to a doctor, which made me feel guilty for suspecting him.But the guilt wasn’t enough. I started testing my theory. Some nights, I’d say I was too full for tea. On those nights, I slept fine. Other nights, I’d drink it and wake up feeling drugged and disoriented. Two weeks ago, I pretended to have a headache and went to bed early. I lay in the dark and listened to him moving around downstairs for over an hour. When he finally came to bed, he seemed agitated, checking his phone constantly.

That’s when I knew. Dererick was putting something in my tea. My own husband was sedating me. I had no idea why. The not knowing was almost worse than the fear.

I had to catch him. I needed to know what he was doing to me while I was unconscious. Tonight was the night.

As Dererick moved closer to the bed, I forced every muscle to stay relaxed. He was standing right next to me now, looking down. Even in the darkness, I could see he was holding something in his gloved hands. He reached toward me, and every instinct screamed at me to run. But I needed to know.What happened next would change everything I thought I knew about the man I had married.

Dererick set something on the nightstand with a soft click. I could see him pulling a small camera from his black bag. He positioned it on the dresser, angling it toward me. A small red light blinked on. He was recording. My stomach turned.He moved back to the nightstand and pulled out his phone, turning on the flashlight but keeping it dim. In the soft glow, he looked down at me with an expression I had never seen before. There was no love there, no tenderness. He was looking at me like I was an object. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a small notebook, flipping through a few pages as if checking a plan.

Then, Dererick did something that made my blood freeze: he pulled out a pair of scissors. I watched in horror as he carefully cut a small piece of fabric from the bottom of my pajama top, right at the hem where it wouldn’t be noticeable. He placed the fabric in a small plastic bag and sealed it.