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For nearly three weeks, a large home in the hills above San Diego had quietly earned a reputation no one wanted.
Domestic agencies did not officially warn applicants away. They did not have to.
Every caregiver who entered the house left shaken. Some cried. Some quit without notice. One locked herself in a room until security helped her leave. Another fled the driveway at sunrise, shaken and certain she could not stay one more minute.
Inside the home, the atmosphere felt heavy and unpredictable.
Jonathan Whitaker watched the latest taxi disappear through the gates from the glass doors of his home office. At thirty-seven, he was a successful entrepreneur, praised in business magazines and admired for building a thriving company.
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