When I answered the knock, police officers were standing there. “This can’t be right,” I said, but one shook his head. “Your daughter reached out to us.” I looked back and saw her crying: “mom, I have to tell you something…”

The Johnson house on Sycamore Lane was a portrait of suburban perfection. Nestled among other single-family homes in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio, its white exterior walls gleamed, and its lawn was a carpet of meticulously maintained green. From the outside, it was a promise of the American dream. But promises, like portraits, can be beautiful lies.