PART 2: I Wasn’t His Only Victim
Dererick continued working as though I were nothing more than an unconscious object. He opened his laptop beside the bed, transferred the photographs he had taken, and appeared to upload them somewhere while repeatedly checking the notebook in his hands.
His phone buzzed several more times, and each new message seemed to contain instructions. At one point, he took additional photographs and immediately sent them, confirming my worst suspicion that someone else was watching and directing at least part of what he was doing.
Then Dererick removed a small swab from his black bag and collected samples from several places on my skin. He carefully sealed each one inside a plastic bag with the same clinical precision he used for everything else.
Finally, he packed away the camera, notebook, and laptop. Before leaving, he leaned over and kissed my forehead with the same tenderness he normally showed me.
“Sweet dreams, Anna.”
Hearing that gentle voice after what I had witnessed was almost unbearable. A few minutes later, the front door quietly closed, and I heard Dererick’s car leave the driveway shortly before three in the morning.
Only then did I allow myself to shake.
My husband hadn’t merely been secretly sedating me. He had photographed me, repositioned me, collected samples, documented everything, and communicated with other people while doing it.
Dererick had told me he was leaving for a three-day business trip to Chicago, so I knew I had a limited opportunity to discover what was happening. I waited another ten minutes before getting out of bed and searching for the personal laptop he kept separate from the computer he used for work.
I eventually found a locked briefcase beneath our bed. The combination was our anniversary, and when the lock clicked open, I felt a sickening mixture of relief and dread.
The laptop contained hundreds of photographs arranged in folders by date. Some went back eight months, long before I had noticed anything unusual, but what terrified me most was discovering folders labeled with other women’s names.
Jennifer. Patricia. Michelle.
There were at least six women.
I opened Jennifer’s folder and found photographs resembling the ones Dererick had taken of me. Later images, however, showed her looking increasingly weak and unwell, and Patricia’s and Michelle’s folders revealed the same disturbing progression.
Then I discovered a document labeled “Client Communications.”
It revealed that Dererick had been running a criminal operation in which paying customers requested photographs and specific staged scenarios involving women whose conditions gradually deteriorated. Different services had different prices, and messages showed customers giving instructions about what they wanted Dererick to document.
I kept searching until I found an email from only two days earlier that mentioned me by name. A customer had asked about something called “Graduation Services,” and Dererick’s response made my hands begin trembling.
He had written that I was “almost ready” and that he would “begin the final phase soon.”
I didn’t know exactly what those words meant, but after seeing the later photographs of the other women, I knew I couldn’t afford to wait and discover the answer. I copied everything I could onto a flash drive, then searched the bedroom until I found Dererick’s notebook hidden inside his sock drawer.
The entries documented substances, amounts, my reactions, and customer requests. More recent notes mentioned people asking about “permanent access,” while Dererick had written that I was becoming suspicious and he might need to “accelerate the timeline.”
That was enough.
Whatever Dererick had planned for his “final phase,” I believed my safety was in immediate danger. I photographed every page, returned everything exactly where I had found it, and tried to think clearly.
Dererick couldn’t know that I had discovered his secret.
Not yet.
But he would eventually come home.
And I had three days to make sure I wasn’t there waiting helplessly when he did.
PART 3: My Neighbor Knew Something Was Wrong
Once I had copied the files and photographed Dererick’s notebook, I returned everything exactly where I had found it. I couldn’t risk letting him know I had discovered what he was doing, but I also knew I couldn’t handle the situation alone.
My first call was to my sister, Clare. She was working a night shift at the hospital, so the call went directly to voicemail.
“It’s an emergency. Call me as soon as you can.”
While waiting, I thought about our elderly neighbor, Mr. Peterson. He spent a lot of time on his front porch, and if Dererick had really been leaving the house in the middle of the night for months, there was a chance Mr. Peterson had noticed something.
It was almost five in the morning, but I saw a light glowing in his kitchen. I crossed the street and knocked, and when he opened the door in his bathrobe, his expression changed the moment he saw me.
“Anna, dear, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
We sat at his kitchen table while I tried to control my shaking hands. I didn’t tell him everything immediately because I needed to know whether his observations matched what I had discovered.
“Mr. Peterson, I need to ask you something. Have you noticed anything strange at our house at night? Anything unusual with Dererick?”
His face became serious.
“Anna, I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask me that.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Peterson explained that for months he had seen Dererick leaving at two or three in the morning. Even more disturbing, unfamiliar visitors sometimes parked farther down the street and approached our house on foot after dark.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He told me Dererick had already prepared an explanation. According to my husband, I suffered from severe sleep problems and was taking powerful medication, so he occasionally needed to check on me or take me to emergency medical appointments.
“He asked me not to mention it to you. He said you were embarrassed.”
I felt sick hearing how carefully Dererick had protected himself. He hadn’t simply hidden his behavior from me; he had created a believable story for anyone who might notice something unusual.
Fortunately, Mr. Peterson had never completely believed him. He said I had always appeared healthy, and the people visiting our house at strange hours certainly hadn’t looked like medical professionals.
I showed him the photographs I had taken of Dererick’s notebook. As he read the entries, the color disappeared from his face.
“Dear God, Anna, we need to call the police right now.”
We contacted 911, but the dispatcher initially treated my report cautiously, apparently hearing it as a complicated domestic situation. They promised to send an officer when one became available, but Mr. Peterson immediately said waiting wasn’t good enough.
“Dererick could come back at any time.”
Then my phone rang.
It was Clare.
“Anna, I got your message. What’s going on?”
I told her everything, from the tea to the camera, the photographs, the other women, and the disturbing records on Dererick’s laptop. Clare remained silent until I finished.
“I’m coming over right now. And I’m bringing someone with me.”
About an hour later, Clare arrived with Detective Martinez, someone she knew through the hospital who specialized in complex investigations. I handed over the flash drive, and after reviewing the evidence, Martinez’s entire demeanor changed.
“This is much bigger than just what he was doing to you. Based on what you’ve found, he’s been running a criminal enterprise for years.”
She immediately called for additional officers. Investigators began tracing information from Dererick’s records, and within hours, they had identified several men in different states who appeared connected to his network.
But there was one problem.
Dererick was still free.
And instead of remaining in Chicago for three days as he had told me, police learned that he was expected home that evening.
Detective Martinez decided they wouldn’t wait for him to disappear.
They were going to let my husband walk back into our house.
And I was going to be waiting for him.
