The photos were spread across our dining table.
There were hundreds of them, revealing intimate, private moments no one should have seen.
Katherine wouldn't even look at them or even enter the room.
She had been sleeping on the couch for three nights now and had been unable to close her eyes in the bedroom.
"They watched us," she said yesterday, her voice sounding hollow. "They were there. While we-"
She couldn't finish her sentence.
I stared at one photo in particular: Katherine and me asleep, tangled together and vulnerable.
Someone had stood in our bedroom, photographed us, and we never knew who it was, which was quite strange, as we were not really deep sleepers who wouldn't have noticed someone was in, especially since Katherine's recent experience with her trauma.
This violation was worse than any physical attack. It was personal, intimate, and designed to destroy our sense of safety.
"We find them," I told Timothy on the phone. "And we end this."
