I believed him at the time, or perhaps I just desperately wanted to believe that my own husband wouldn’t lie to me. The following month, the exact same thing happened again after I drank a single glass of fruit punch that Frank had insisted on serving me personally.
I woke up with my lipstick completely smeared, my hair in total disarray, and a lingering, chilling feeling that someone had been standing far too close to me while I was unconscious. “Why is my blouse buttoned like this?” I asked with a shaky, confused voice.
Brian didn’t even bother to look at me while he checked his watch. “You must have moved around a lot in your sleep because you know how you get when you are overtired,” he replied coldly.
But I knew for a fact that I was not like that, and I was not going to let it happen again without a fight. In June, I decided to conduct my own private investigation before heading over to their house for dinner.
I took a clear picture of myself in front of the bedroom mirror to document that my white blouse was pristine, my buttons were perfectly aligned, and my watch was adjusted correctly. I also took a small permanent marker and drew a tiny, invisible dot under the strap of my camisole to see if anyone had touched me.
