“You need to be very careful about what you say next, Arthur.”

There it was. The mask was entirely gone.

For six grueling months, my daughter had suffered in the dark.

For six months, the phone would ring at midnight.

I would answer, my heart hammering in my throat, only to hear Emma’s jagged, shallow breathing on the other end, followed by a soft click.

For six months, I watched faded, yellowing bruises appear beneath the long, heavy sleeves she wore, even in the sweltering heat of July.

And for six months, Evan had waged a brilliant, insidious campaign of character assassination.