But the pattern became harder to ignore. The garage door would close. The light would click on. The small window was suddenly covered, and the radio always seemed to be playing just loud enough to drown out voices. When I asked Jason what they were doing, he smiled like I was being silly and said, “Private talks—you’re not invited.” It sounded like a joke, but something about it stuck with me. When I gently asked Lizzie later, she repeated the exact same words, perfectly, like a line she’d practiced. She didn’t seem scared. Sometimes she even seemed happy when she came out. That should have reassured me—but instead, the sameness of it all made my stomach knot.

I started noticing details I’d never paid attention to before. If I knocked on the garage door, it never opened right away—there was always a delay, a few minutes that stretched too long. When Jason finally stepped out, he stood in the doorway, blocking my view, asking what I needed. Only then would Lizzie follow him out, smiling, acting normal. Nothing I could point to screamed danger. And yet the secrecy gnawed at me, day and night. I tried telling myself I was being paranoid, that motherhood sometimes turns fear into imagination. Still, the feeling wouldn’t leave. It followed me into the quiet moments, into the spaces where trust should have lived easily.

So I did something I never thought I would do. One afternoon while Jason was at work, I set up a small hidden camera in the corner of the garage, tucked behind storage bins and plugged into an outlet no one ever used. My hands shook as I positioned it—not from certainty, but from dread of what I might confirm or destroy. That evening, like clockwork, Jason and Lizzie went into the garage again. The door clicked shut. I opened the live feed on my phone, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure I’d miss everything. The image loaded. I brought my hand to my mouth—and in that instant, I realized that some truths, once seen, can never be unseen.