For nearly three weeks, the Whitaker estate in the hills above San Diego had been quietly blacklisted. Domestic agencies did not say the house was dangerous, not officially, but every woman who entered it left changed. Some cried. Some shouted. One locked herself in the laundry room until security escorted her out. The last caregiver ran barefoot through the driveway at dawn, green paint dripping from her hair, screaming that the children were possessed and the walls listened when you slept.
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