The Impostor Husband, The Vanished Daughter

From the back cover

The first sign that something was wrong was the silence.

It was a heavy, unnatural quiet where my daughter Lily' s humming should have been.

"Lily?" I called out, my voice too loud in the dusty living room of my husband Daniel's childhood home.

No answer.

A knot of unease tightened as I searched the house, my heart beginning to pound.

When I found Daniel upstairs, he was calm, too calm.

"I can' t find Lily," I said, breathless.

He smiled, but his eyes were empty.

"Olivia, honey, we' ve been over this. You don' t have a daughter. There is no Lily."

The world tilted.

He pulled out medical records, diagnoses of postpartum psychosis, years of therapy.

Every piece of my memory, twisted, manipulated.

My husband and his mother, Patricia, looked at me with pity and annoyance, like I was a problem, not a person.

"You' re lying," I whispered, holding a small drawing I found, a crayon picture of a girl in a yellow dress, with one word: LILY.

They had erased every trace-photos, her booster seat, everything.

Even my best friend, Sarah, my supposed therapist, denied Lily' s existence.

I was trapped, my reality crumbling around me.

But the real Daniel was allergic to peanuts.

The man beside me ate the peanut butter toast without a flinch.

He wasn' t my husband.

He was an impostor, and he, along with the whole town, was involved in something ancient and evil.

They were preparing a sacrifice.

My daughter.

Lily was real, and she was in danger.

I had to save her, no matter the cost.