Disaster
I've just gotten back from a business trip when my wife, Lisa Irwin, steps onto the windowsill.
She looks at me, tears streaming down her face, and whispers, "I'm so sorry, honey."
Then she jumps in front of me.
Our three-month-old daughter, Ariah Conner, lies silent in her crib.
She's not breathing, and her skin has turned a deep purple.
Beside her, our nanny, Aunt Caitlin, lies unconscious with blood pooling from a head wound.
The police tell me Lisa was sexually assaulted before she died, and Ariah suffocated.
The security cameras were down. There was no sign of forced entry.
In a single day, my whole world shatters.
Every clue points to a phantom who doesn't exist.
I spend five years hunting for answers.
Yet even on my deathbed, I never catch the monster who ruined my life.
As I close my eyes, one final thought haunts me.
If I get another shot, I'll die before I let anything happen to Lisa and Ariah again.
When I open my eyes, I'm back to the morning of the tragedy.
I walk right out of my meeting and dial Lisa's number. "Don't open the door for anyone. Set up extra cameras around the house, and stay put until I get home!"