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A seven-year-old girl was nearly buried beneath the snow when I found her alone on a Chicago park bench on Christmas Eve, clutching a battered stuffed rabbit and whispering, “I’m waiting for my mama.” I had buried my own daughter three years earlier, so I wrapped the child in my coat and refused to leave her behind. What I didn’t know was that her mother was unconscious in a hospital, and someone else was already searching for the little girl because of what she had seen.
The grocery receipts totaling ten thousand dollars a month weren't buying organic baby food, but rather payoffs for the twelve armed guards sworn to keep my family trapped.  At 11:47 that night, I caught a homeless woman slipping food through the barred nursery window of my Nashville estate while my two little girls devoured it like they hadn’t eaten in days. I had installed eleven hidden cameras to catch the stranger threatening my family, but those cameras exposed something worse: the person starving my daughters was already inside my home.