The back pew at Grace Community Church in Dayton always smelled like floor wax and old, dusty hymnals. It was my favorite spot. I liked the quiet there. I liked watching Brynn color in her little books while the choir practiced their scales. It was a good life back then. I thought it was a safe one.

But then I looked over and saw her packing her small tote bag. She was putting her stuffed rabbit and her favorite crayons into the bag. She walked over to the Miller boy sitting two rows up and handed him her jewelry box.

“I won’t need them anymore,” she whispered.

She was six. She said it with such a calm, flat voice that it scared me more than if she had been crying. I reached out and took her hand. It felt cold, even in the warmth of the church.

“Why not, sweetie?” I asked.

She didn’t look up at me. She kept her eyes fixed on the worn carpet under our feet. “Mr. Reece says bad girls sleep in the basement,” she said. “And there’s no toys down there.”

My stomach turned over. My daughter, Sarah, had married Reece eight months ago. I had been so happy for her. I wanted the best for them. I paid for the whole wedding, all $14,000 of it, just to make sure they started off on the right foot. I thought I was building them a home. I thought I was helping.

“When did he say that?” I asked.

She just shrugged. “He counts,” she said. “If he reaches ten, he gets mad.”

I felt like the floor was dropping out from under me. I pulled her onto my lap, right there in the church. I was shaking so bad I could hardly hold her. I thought about the house they lived in. I thought about how often I visited and how I never noticed a thing. I felt like such a fool.

“Brynn, listen to me,” I said. “Where do you sleep?”

She didn’t answer right away. She just pulled her sleeve up, slow and careful. There were four small, dark marks in a row on her upper arm. They were the size of a man’s fingertips. They looked like they had been there for a few days, fading into a sickly yellow.

I gripped the edge of the pew until my fingers ached. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run to that house and tear it apart with my bare hands. But I couldn’t. I had to think.

“When does he count?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, like it was coming from someone else.

“When I’m too slow getting dressed,” she said. “He counts. If he reaches ten, he…”