After spending the entire night and some of the morning working on the manuscript, I finally reached the last page. I felt the manuscript was done at that point because, really, what more could I have added? It felt as though our world was over. The end.

I printed it out and stuffed it away in a box, thinking one day in the future I’d get back to it. Maybe add an epilogue. Maybe I would burn it. Whatever the plan was, I was not expecting you to somehow read it. I was not expecting you to believe it.

After being up all night writing, I slept most of the day. When I finally woke up that night, I couldn’t find you. Crew was already asleep, but you weren’t up there with him. I was standing in the hallway wondering where you had disappeared to when I heard a noise in my office.

The noise was you. I’m not sure what kind of sound you had made, but it was worse than either of the days we found out the girls had died. I walked toward my office to console you, but I stopped short before opening the door because your cries had turned into rage. Something crashed against the wall. I jumped back—wondering what was happening.

That’s when I remembered the laptop. The autobiography was the last file I had opened.

I swung open the door to explain what I knew you had just read. I’ll never forget the look on your face as you stood there and looked at me from across the room. It was complete and utter…misery.

Not like the sadness of someone who just found out one of their children died. It was a consuming sadness, like every happy memory we had ever had as a family was erased with every new word of that manuscript you had read. Gone. There was nothing left inside you but hatred and destruction.

I shook my head, tried to speak. I wanted to say, “No. It’s not true, Jeremy. It’s okay, it’s not true.” But all I could get out was a fearful and pathetic, “No.”

The next thing I knew, you were dragging me by my throat to the bedroom. I was no match for your strength as you held my arms down with your knees and squeezed my throat even tighter.

If you’d given me five seconds. Just five seconds to explain, I could have saved us. I tried so hard to say, “Just let me explain,” but I couldn’t breathe.

I’m not sure what the sequence of events was after that. I know I passed out. Maybe you panicked because you realized you had almost killed me. If I had died on that bed, you would have been arrested for my murder. Crew wouldn’t have a father.

I woke up in the passenger seat of my Range Rover and you were behind the wheel. There was tape on my mouth, and my hands and feet were bound together. Again, I just wanted to explain that what you read wasn’t true—but I couldn’t talk. I looked down and realized I didn’t have on a seatbelt. And in that moment, I knew what you were doing.

It was one simple sentence in my manuscript, about how I should turn off the passenger airbag and drive my car into a tree while Harper was unbuckled so her death would look like an accident.

You were going to kill me and make my death look like an accident. I had unknowingly written my own death in the last two sentences of my manuscript. “So Be It. Maybe I’ll just drive my car into a tree.”

I realized in that moment, if you were ever suspected of my death, all you had to do was provide the manuscript. Had I died, it would have been the perfect suicide letter.

Of course, we both know how that part of the story ended. I’m assuming you removed the tape from my hands and feet, placed me into the driver’s side of the vehicle, and walked back home where you waited for the police to come notify you that I had died.

Your plan didn’t quite work out, though. I’m not sure I’m relieved that it failed. It would almost be easier if I had died in that wreck because pretending to be injured has been difficult. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve been deceiving you for so long.

I have very little memory of that first month after Harper’s death. I’m assuming I was in a medically induced coma because of the swelling on my brain. But I remember the day I came out of it very clearly. I was alone in the room, thank God, which gave me time to process what needed to happen next.

How would I explain to you that every negative word you read was a lie? You wouldn’t believe me if I tried to deny that manuscript, because I wrote it. Those words were mine, no matter how untrue they were. Because who would believe it was a lie? Certainly not someone who didn’t understand the writing process. And if you were aware that I had recovered, you would turn me in to the police, if you hadn’t already. I’m sure an investigation would have followed Harper’s death had I not had that wreck. And with my own husband against me, I have no doubt that I would be convicted of her murder because it would be my own words used against me.

For three days I pretended to still be in a coma when anyone would enter my room. Doctors, nurses, you, Crew. But I was careless one day and you caught me with my eyes open as you walked into the hospital room. You stared at me. I stared back. I saw your fists clench, as if you were pissed that I had woken up. As if you wanted to walk over and wrap your fingers around my throat again.

You took a few steps toward me, but I decided not to follow you with my eyes because your rage terrified me. If I pretended not to be aware of my surroundings in that moment, there was a chance you wouldn’t try to end my life again. A chance you wouldn’t go to the police and tell them I had recovered.

So I pretended for weeks because I felt it was my only means of survival. I was going to fake the extent of my brain injuries until I could figure out how to fix the situation I was in.

Don’t think it wasn’t hard. It was humiliating at times. I wanted to give up. Kill myself. Kill you. I was so angry at where our lives had ended up, and after all those years of marriage you could even, for one second, believe any of that manuscript to be true. I mean seriously, Jeremy. Do men really believe women are that obsessed with sex? It was fiction! Of course I loved making love to you, but most of the time it was to please you because that’s what couples do for each other. It wasn’t because I couldn’t live without it.

You were a good husband to me and whether you believe it to be true, I was a good wife to you. You’re still a good husband to me. You believe in your heart that I murdered our daughter, yet you still ensure I’m taken care of. Maybe it’s because you think I’m no longer in here—that all the evil parts of me died in that wreck and I’m merely someone you feel sorry for now. I think that’s why you brought me home because with all Crew has been through, your heart is too good to keep him away from me. You knew after losing both of his sisters, the complete loss of his mother would do even more damage to him.

Despite what my manuscript stated, your love for our children is the thing I’ve always cherished most about you.

There have been moments throughout these past few months when I’ve wanted to tell you I’m here. That it’s me. That I’m okay. But it would be a waste of breath. We can’t get past two murder attempts, Jeremy. And I know if you find out I’m faking this before I’m able to leave, your third attempt at killing me will be successful.

I’m not going through all this effort in hopes that I’ll eventually change your mind and prove to you how wrong you were. You will never fully trust me again.

Everything I’m doing is for Crew. All I can think about is my little boy. Everything I’ve done from the day I woke up in that hospital has been for Crew. As much as I don’t want to take Crew away from you, I have no choice. He’s my child and he needs to be with me. He’s the only one who knows I’m still in here—that I still have thoughts and a voice and a plan. It feels safe, being myself with him, because he’s only five. I know if he told you I speak to him, you would pass it off as an active imagination, or even trauma from all he’s been through.

He’s the reason I searched so hard for that manuscript. I know, if you ever find us after I leave here, you’ll try to use it against me. You’ll want him to believe it as you believed it.

The first night after you brought me home, I snuck to the office to delete the manuscript from the laptop, but you had already deleted it. I tried to find the one I had printed, but I couldn’t remember where it was. There were blank spots in my memory after the wreck, and that was one of them. But I knew I needed to get rid of both of them so you couldn’t use it against me.