They buried me up to my neck in the backyard dirt for days while I was pregnant, pouring water and insects over me as “punishment for disobedience.”

I stared at the envelope. Mara had mailed a letter to my sister three weeks before burying me in the dirt.

Inside was a single sheet of lined paper written in Mara’s uneven handwriting:

Rachel, You probably don’t want to hear from me, and I don’t blame you. I think something is wrong in this house. Daniel has changed, or maybe I am only starting to notice things I should have noticed before. Mom keeps saying Claire is too sensitive and Daniel keeps saying Claire is confused. I don’t know what is true anymore. But I found something in Dad’s old desk that makes me think this has happened in our family before... If you can, call her. Don’t tell Daniel I wrote to you. — Mara

"She wrote this three weeks ago?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "And then she sat in the yard and watched him pour water over me?"

"I know," Rachel said softly. "I know."

The sheriff’s investigator arrived after dinner—a calm woman named Elena Ruiz. I explained how my recordings had automatically uploaded to a cloud server I set up months ago.

"Why months ago?" Ruiz asked.

"Because Daniel had begun telling people I forgot conversations," I explained. "At first, he made jokes about pregnancy brain. Then he corrected my memories in front of others. Small things. So I started keeping notes. Screenshots. Then recordings."

"Do you remember when you first felt you needed a record?"

"The anniversary dinner," I said immediately. "Last November."

At that dinner, Daniel’s mother had mentioned selling a parcel of land she owned. Daniel claimed we had discussed buying it; I said we hadn't. He laughed, his mother laughed, and by the end of the night, I was the only person insisting it had never happened. Driving home, he told me I embarrassed him. The next morning, he suggested I see a doctor for pregnancy-related memory loss.

Rachel sat up straight. "What land, Claire?"

"A property near Daniel’s mother’s house. Seven or eight acres."

Rachel pulled out her phone and scrolled through her messages. "Mara texted me after she mailed that letter. She wrote: 'If Claire ever mentions papers Daniel asked her to sign, tell her not to sign anything until she reads the trust documents.'"

A cold pressure stirred behind my ribs. Two months earlier, Daniel had slid a cream-colored folder across the kitchen island, calling it routine insurance paperwork. He pointed to three yellow tabs and asked me to sign. I had been cooking and promised to do it later. Afterward, the folder vanished.

"Where would financial documents be kept?" Ruiz asked.