Five years of silence, a ghost in Eastern Europe for the CIA, and all I dreamt of was coming home to my husband and our daughter. My handler gave me a burner phone, a sliver of connection to the life I' d left. With trembling hands, I tapped into my home security feed, desperate for a glimpse of them. The flickering screen showed my elderly, stroke-ridden mother being slapped and force-fed spoiled mush. Then, my eight-year-old daughter, Molly, on her hands and knees. "Lick it up, you little brat," the nanny, Jennifer, sneered, kicking Molly, forcing her to clean spilled food off the marble floor. My blood ran cold, a primal scream trapped in my throat. I stormed through the door, only to be branded an intruder by Jennifer and her mother, Debra. My husband, Matthew, paralyzed by his manipulative mother Rosalynn' s control, watched as I was humiliated and assaulted in my own living room. They beat me, in front of my daughter, in the very house I' d fought to protect. How could the life I sacrificed everything for have become this twisted nightmare, where I was a stranger, an outcast in my own home? Just as despair threatened to consume me, a fleet of black SUVs swarmed the property, and my CIA handler, Andrew Blakely, walked in. He held up a tablet, and the unedited footage of my mother and daughter' s abuse began to play on our living room TV.
Five years of silence, a ghost in Eastern Europe for the CIA, and all I dreamt of was coming home to my husband and our daughter.
My handler gave me a burner phone, a sliver of connection to the life I' d left.
With trembling hands, I tapped into my home security feed, desperate for a glimpse of them.
The flickering screen showed my elderly, stroke-ridden mother being slapped and force-fed spoiled mush.
Then, my eight-year-old daughter, Molly, on her hands and knees.
"Lick it up, you little brat," the nanny, Jennifer, sneered, kicking Molly, forcing her to clean spilled food off the marble floor.
My blood ran cold, a primal scream trapped in my throat.
I stormed through the door, only to be branded an intruder by Jennifer and her mother, Debra.
My husband, Matthew, paralyzed by his manipulative mother Rosalynn' s control, watched as I was humiliated and assaulted in my own living room.
They beat me, in front of my daughter, in the very house I' d fought to protect.
How could the life I sacrificed everything for have become this twisted nightmare, where I was a stranger, an outcast in my own home?
Just as despair threatened to consume me, a fleet of black SUVs swarmed the property, and my CIA handler, Andrew Blakely, walked in.
He held up a tablet, and the unedited footage of my mother and daughter' s abuse began to play on our living room TV.
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