I lay in our bed, forcing my breathing to stay slow and steady, my heart beating so loud I was sure Dererick could hear it from across the room. My eyes were barely cracked open, just enough to see him moving in the darkness. It was 2:17 a.m., and my husband was creeping around our bedroom, wearing latex gloves and carrying a small black bag I had never seen before.

Three hours earlier, I had done something that terrified me more than anything in my life. When Dererick handed me my nightly cup of chamomile tea—the same tea he had made for me every single night for the past month—I smiled and thanked him, just like always. But this time, when he went to brush his teeth, I poured every last drop down the bathroom sink and rinsed the cup clean. Then I climbed into bed and waited.

Now, watching him through my barely open eyelids, I knew I had been right. Dererick thought I was unconscious, knocked out cold by whatever he had been putting in my tea. He moved with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before. That scared me more than anything.

The whole nightmare had started three weeks ago, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I just thought I was going through a rough patch. Every morning, I would wake up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck—groggy, confused, sometimes finding myself in strange positions. My pajamas would be twisted, and I’d have no memory of moving.

At first, I blamed it on stress. Dererick had been traveling more for his job selling medical equipment, and I was working long hours on a big project for my graphic design business. But then my sister, Clare, called one Tuesday morning, her voice tight with worry.

“Anna, are you okay? You sounded really weird last night when we talked. Like you were drunk or something, but you said you hadn’t been drinking.”

I didn’t remember talking to Clare. I didn’t remember anything after drinking my tea and going to bed. That’s when the first cold finger of fear touched my spine.

I started paying closer attention. I noticed the strange, heavy sleep only happened on nights when Dererick was home. When he was traveling, I slept normally and woke up refreshed. The bruises were what really convinced me. Small, faint marks on my arms and legs that I couldn’t explain. When I asked Dererick, he looked concerned and suggested maybe I was sleepwalking. He even offered to take me to a doctor, which made me feel guilty for suspecting him.

But the guilt wasn’t enough. I started testing my theory. Some nights, I’d say I was too full for tea. On those nights, I slept fine. Other nights, I’d drink it and wake up feeling drugged and disoriented. Two weeks ago, I pretended to have a headache and went to bed early. I lay in the dark and listened to him moving around downstairs for over an hour. When he finally came to bed, he seemed agitated, checking his phone constantly.

That’s when I knew. Dererick was putting something in my tea. My own husband was sedating me. I had no idea why. The not knowing was almost worse than the fear.

I had to catch him. I needed to know what he was doing to me while I was unconscious. Tonight was the night.

As Dererick moved closer to the bed, I forced every muscle to stay relaxed. He was standing right next to me now, looking down. Even in the darkness, I could see he was holding something in his gloved hands. He reached toward me, and every instinct screamed at me to run. But I needed to know.

What happened next would change everything I thought I knew about the man I had married.

Dererick set something on the nightstand with a soft click. I could see him pulling a small camera from his black bag. He positioned it on the dresser, angling it toward me. A small red light blinked on. He was recording. My stomach turned.

He moved back to the nightstand and pulled out his phone, turning on the flashlight but keeping it dim. In the soft glow, he looked down at me with an expression I had never seen before. There was no love there, no tenderness. He was looking at me like I was an object. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a small notebook, flipping through a few pages as if checking a plan.

Then, Dererick did something that made my blood freeze: he pulled out a pair of scissors. I watched in horror as he carefully cut a small piece of fabric from the bottom of my pajama top, right at the hem where it wouldn’t be noticeable. He placed the fabric in a small plastic bag and sealed it.

He put the scissors away and moved closer. He started taking pictures of me with his phone, moving around to get different angles. But then he started moving my body. Dererick lifted my arm, positioned it differently, and took more pictures. He moved my leg, adjusted my head on the pillow, even pulled at my pajama top to make it look more disheveled. Each time he moved me, he would take more photos.

I had to use every ounce of willpower to stay limp and unresponsive, a lifeless doll while my husband posed me for his sick photographs. The worst part was how methodical he was. This wasn’t impulsive. He knew exactly how to move me without waking someone who was truly unconscious.

After about 20 minutes, he stopped taking pictures and pulled out his laptop. He set it up on the chair next to our bed and started transferring the photos. I realized he was uploading them somewhere. While they uploaded, Dererick opened his notebook and started writing, glancing back and forth between me and the notebook. He was taking notes.

Then his phone buzzed. He picked it up, read a text, and typed a response. A few seconds later, another message came in. Dererick smiled as he read it. That smile was the most terrifying thing I had seen all night. He typed another message, then showed his phone screen toward the camera that was still recording. He was communicating with someone, showing them his work. More messages came in. At one point, he took a few more pictures of me and sent them right away. Someone was giving him instructions. This wasn’t just him. He was working with other people.

Dererick closed his laptop but wasn’t done. He pulled something else from his bag—a small swab. He used it to collect something from my skin, then sealed the swab in another small plastic bag. He did this in several different places. I had no idea what he was collecting, but the clinical way he did it reminded me of evidence collection at a crime scene.

Finally, he started packing up. He put the camera, laptop, and notebook back into his bag. He took one last picture of me with his phone, then turned off the camera on the dresser. But before he left the room, he leaned down and kissed my forehead, just like he did every morning. “Sweet dreams, Anna,” he whispered. His voice was so gentle, so loving, that for a moment I almost doubted what I had just seen.

Then he was gone, taking his black bag with him. I heard him go downstairs and, a few minutes later, the front door opened and closed quietly. Dererick had left the house at almost 3:00 a.m.

I lay there, my whole body shaking now that I was alone. What I had just witnessed was so much worse than anything I had imagined. Dererick wasn’t just sedating me. He was photographing me, collecting samples from my body, keeping detailed records, and sharing everything with other people. I wasn’t just his victim. I was his product.

The sound of Dererick’s car pulling out of the driveway was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I waited another ten minutes before I finally allowed myself to move. I had to move fast. Dererick had said he was leaving for a three-day business trip to Chicago. That meant I had, at most, a few hours.

The first thing I did was search our bedroom for his real laptop, not the one he used for work. I found it in a locked briefcase under our bed. The combination was our anniversary. It clicked open immediately.

What I found made me sick, but I forced myself to keep looking. I needed evidence. There were hundreds of photos organized into folders by date. The oldest folder was dated eight months ago. But I wasn’t the only victim. There were folders with other women’s names: Jennifer, Patricia, Michelle… at least six different women.

I opened Jennifer’s folder. The photos showed a blonde woman, posed just like me. But her folder had a subfolder labeled “Final Session” that made my blood run cold. The photos in that folder showed the woman looking much thinner, sicker. Patricia’s folder had the same. So did Michelle’s. All of them looked healthy in the early photos but weak and ill in the later ones.

I found my answer in a document labeled “Client Communications.” Dererick was running a sick business. He was documenting a slow decline in his victims, likely through poisoning, to sell as some kind of perverse “experience” to paying customers online. The customers could request specific poses, specific scenarios.

The document showed different rates. Basic photo sessions were cheapest. “Premium Services” cost the most. I found out what that meant when I opened his email. There were messages discussing what customers wanted to see. But the most terrifying thing was an email from just two days ago. A customer was asking about “Graduation Services” for me. Dererick had responded that I was “almost ready” and that he would “begin the final phase soon.”

I didn’t know what the “final phase” meant, but based on the other women, I knew it wasn’t good. I copied everything onto a flash drive. Then I found his notebook, hidden in his sock drawer. It confirmed everything. He recorded the drugs, the doses, how I reacted. He noted which poses his customers requested.

But the most chilling entries were from the past week. Dererick had written that several customers were asking about “permanent access” to me and that he was considering transitioning to the “final service level.” He also noted that I was becoming suspicious and he “might need to accelerate the timeline.”

I realized Dererick was planning to do something permanent to me. Looking at what happened to the other women, I was terrified that “permanent” meant I would disappear entirely.

I took pictures of every page in the notebook, then put everything back. He couldn’t know I had discovered his secret. Not yet. But I couldn’t handle this alone. Dererick would be back in three days.

I called Clare first, but it went straight to voicemail. She was working a night shift at the hospital. I left a message: “It’s an emergency. Call me as soon as you can.”

Then I thought about Mr. Peterson, our elderly neighbor. He was always on his front porch. If Dererick had been acting strangely, Mr. Peterson might have noticed. I looked out our window and saw a light on in his kitchen. It was almost 5:00 a.m. I had to take the chance. I was running out of time.

Mr. Peterson answered in his bathrobe, looking concerned. “Anna, dear, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I sat at his kitchen table, my hands shaking. “Mr. Peterson, I need to ask you something. Have you noticed anything strange at our house at night? Anything unusual with Dererick?”

His expression grew serious. He poured coffee and sat across from me. “Anna, I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask me that.” My heart stopped. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been watching Dererick come and go at all hours for months. Sometimes he leaves at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning. Other times he has visitors who park down the street and walk to your house in the dark.”

I felt sick. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Dererick told me you were having severe sleep problems,” he said gently. “He said you were on strong medication. He said the doctor had advised him to check on you, and sometimes he had to take you to emergency medical appointments. He asked me not to mention it to you, that you were embarrassed.”

Dererick had covered his tracks. But Mr. Peterson was sharper than Dererick realized. “Something about his story never sat right with me,” Mr. Peterson continued. “You’ve always seemed perfectly healthy, and his visitors… they didn’t look like medical professionals.”

I showed Mr. Peterson the photos of the notebook. His face went pale. “Dear God, Anna, we need to call the police right now.”

But when we called 911, the dispatcher seemed skeptical. A woman claiming her husband was drugging her sounded like a domestic dispute. They said they would send an officer when one became available.

“That’s not good enough,” Mr. Peterson said. “Dererick could come back at any time.”

That’s when Clare finally called me back. “Anna, I got your message. What’s going on?”

I explained everything. Clare listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment. “I’m coming over right now,” she finally said. “And I’m bringing someone with me.”

An hour later, Clare arrived with Detective Martinez, a friend of hers from the hospital who specialized in complex cases. Detective Martinez took one look at the evidence on the flash drive and immediately called for backup. “This is much bigger than just what he was doing to you,” she explained. “Based on what you’ve found, he’s been running a criminal enterprise for years.”

The police set up surveillance on our house and traced the phone numbers from Dererick’s records. Within hours, they identified several other men in different states who were part of his network. They were all being arrested, but Dererick was still out there. He was supposed to come home that evening.

Detective Martinez decided to set a trap. They would let Dererick return home, but the house would be surrounded. They wanted to catch him in the act. I was terrified, but I knew it was the only way.

That evening, I sat in our living room with a wire hidden under my shirt, waiting. Police officers were positioned all around the house, but I still felt scared and alone.

Dererick walked through the front door at exactly 7:00 p.m., carrying flowers and chocolates. He kissed me hello, acting like the loving husband he had pretended to be. “I missed you,” he said.

When bedtime came, he went to the kitchen. He brought me the cup with the same gentle smile. “Sweet dreams, honey,” he said, kissing my forehead.

Twenty minutes later, when Dererick thought I was unconscious, he went to get his black bag. But this time, when he turned on his camera and pulled out his notebook, Detective Martinez and three other officers burst through our bedroom door.

Dererick’s face went white as the officers surrounded him. He looked at me, lying in bed, then at the police, then back at me. That’s when he realized I was awake—that I had been awake the whole time.

“You knew,” he whispered. And for the first time since I had known him, Dererick looked genuinely afraid.

“I knew,” I said, sitting up. “I knew everything.”

As the police led Dererick away in handcuffs, he kept looking back at me. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was disbelief. Or maybe it was just the realization that his carefully constructed world had finally collapsed.

The investigation uncovered a network of predators spanning multiple states. Seventeen women came forward as victims. Dererick was eventually sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

I moved in with Clare while I recovered. It took months of therapy, but I slowly began to rebuild my life. The hardest part was learning to trust again, to believe that not everyone who claimed to love me was hiding something dark underneath. But with Clare’s support and the help of other survivors, I found my strength.

A year later, I started a nonprofit organization to help other women who had been victims of similar crimes. I used my graphic design skills to create materials and websites that helped survivors connect with resources. Dererick had tried to make me a victim, but instead, he had made me a survivor. And now, I was using that survival to help others find their own strength and their own voices.

The nightmares still came sometimes, but they were getting less frequent. And when they did, I reminded myself that Dererick was locked away forever. I had trusted my instincts. I had been brave enough to seek help. And I had survived. That was something he could never take away from me.