As I delved deeper, I found correspondence with an unknown contact. The exchanges were chilling. They spoke in coded language, discussing “shipments” and “new inventory.” The callousness with which they referred to living, breathing people was nauseating. The messages confirmed what I feared most: this was a trafficking operation, and my husband was deeply entrenched in it.

I paused for a moment, considering my next move. I couldn’t stay in the house any longer; it was critical to get out unseen and reach safety. But I needed more than just digital proof. My eyes scanned the room, landing on the small plastic bag that Dererick had used to store the fabric from my pajamas. It was another piece of evidence, tangible and damning. I tucked it into my pocket before making one last sweep of the room. My gaze landed on his black bag, still sitting where he had left it. I rifled through it quickly, my heart pounding in my ears. Notebooks filled with meticulous notes detailing his activities, a secondary phone with more messages, and a list of names, some of which I recognized. I took pictures of every page using my phone.