Part 1: Something Was Wrong With My Tea
At 2:17 in the morning, I lay perfectly still beside my husband, Dererick, forcing my breathing to remain slow and even while watching him through barely opened eyes. He moved quietly around our dark bedroom wearing latex gloves and carrying a small black bag I had never seen before, completely convinced that I was unconscious.
Three hours earlier, Dererick had prepared my usual cup of chamomile tea. He had been making the same drink for me every night for nearly a month, but after he went to brush his teeth, I poured it down the bathroom sink, rinsed the cup, climbed into bed, and pretended to fall asleep.
Watching him now confirmed the suspicion I had been afraid to believe. Whatever he had been putting in that tea was clearly intended to keep me unconscious, and the confidence with which he moved through the room suggested this was not the first time he had done something while I slept.
The strange pattern had begun about three weeks earlier. Whenever Dererick spent the night at home, I woke the next morning feeling unusually groggy and disoriented, sometimes finding my pajamas twisted or my body positioned differently from how I remembered falling asleep.
At first, I blamed exhaustion. Dererick had been traveling frequently for his medical-equipment sales job, while I was working long hours to finish an important project for my graphic design business.
Then my sister Clare called one Tuesday morning.
“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 had no memory of speaking to her at all. The last thing I remembered from the previous night was drinking the tea Dererick had made and going to bed.
After that, I started paying closer attention. The unnatural exhaustion happened only when Dererick was home, while on nights he traveled, I slept normally and woke feeling rested.
Then I began noticing small unexplained marks on my arms and legs. When I mentioned them, Dererick acted concerned and suggested that I might be sleepwalking, even offering to take me to a doctor.
For a while, his apparent concern made me feel guilty for suspecting him. But I could no longer ignore the pattern, so I started quietly testing what happened whenever I avoided the tea.
On nights when I told him I was too full to drink it, I woke normally. Whenever I accepted it, I felt exhausted and confused the next morning, and one night when I claimed to have a headache and went straight to bed without drinking anything, Dererick stayed downstairs for more than an hour before coming to bed visibly irritated.
That was when I became convinced he was secretly sedating me.
I still didn’t understand why.
So that night, I pretended to drink the tea and waited.
Dererick approached the bed and studied my face for several seconds while I fought every instinct telling me to move. Then he reached into the black bag, removed a small camera, and placed it on the dresser facing the bed.
A tiny red light appeared.
He was recording me.
Next, Dererick opened a notebook and studied several pages as though following a set of instructions. He removed a pair of scissors, cut a small piece from the hem of my pajama top, and carefully sealed the fabric inside a plastic bag.
I wanted to sit up and demand an explanation, but I stayed completely still.
He began taking photographs while repositioning my arm and adjusting the way I was lying. Every movement was deliberate and methodical, as though he had practiced exactly how to handle someone without waking them.
Then his phone buzzed. Dererick read the message and smiled.
Another message appeared, followed by a third. He took several more photographs and immediately sent them to whoever was contacting him.
That was when the truth became even more frightening.
My husband was not doing this alone.
