I hear a girl screaming for help inside your house,” my neighbor whispered. I thought she was crazy. My wife was at work, and my 15-year-old daughter was at school. “Lucy is fine,” my wife
“Veronica,” my daughter whispered to the empty room. “Why are you doing this to me?” The name hit me like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Veronica. My wife. The woman who brewed my coffee every morning. The woman who had smoothly convinced me my grieving daughter was just being a “dramatic teenager.” My hand clamped…