Kayla’s scream woke me at 6:13 on Saturday morning.

I ran down the hall so fast I slammed my shoulder into the doorframe.

She was sitting upright in bed with both hands pressed against her head.

Her prom dress was still hanging from the closet door inside its plastic cover thief.

Her silver shoes sat neatly beneath it tools.

Prom was that night.

But Kayla’s hair was gone.

Blonde strands covered the pillow.

More were tangled in the sheets.

Soft clumps were scattered across the carpet.

It looked as though someone had tried to erase part of her while she slept.

To understand why, I need to explain what had been happening in our family for months.

My name is Rachel Adams.

My husband, David, and I had been married sixteen years.