Chapter 8
The security tech arrived at 9:04 in a gray van that said Sentinel Systems on the side. He was a thin man in his fifties with a toolbox and a laptop, and he didn't make small talk. Dad met him at the bright double entry doors and I stayed close to Dad's side in my white tights and sweater, still feeling like I was wearing the beaded dress from the night before even though I wasn't.
Stepmother came downstairs dressed like she was going to a luncheon. Her hair was brushed smooth, her makeup done. She smiled at the tech.
"That old dome hasn't been active since we moved in," she said lightly.
The tech looked up at the black dome camera mounted on the ornate crown molding above the dining room. "We'll see," he said. He climbed a small ladder, unscrewed the dome with a practiced twist, and pulled out a compact hard drive. He blew dust off it and plugged it into his laptop on the dining table.
The three of us stood around the table. The laptop screen reflected the crystal chandelier. A program loaded with a grid of timestamps.
"Motion-triggered," the tech said. "Looks continuous. You've got 72 hours loop."
He clicked the file marked the previous evening. The timecode said 6:42 p.m.
On the screen, the dining room appeared from above — the long table, the white flowers, the wine glasses, the polished floor shining. I saw myself in the white sleeveless beaded dress with the pink bow, sitting at the table. I saw Stepmother standing beside me.
No sound at first. Then the tech clicked audio on.
"You do not belong at this table," Stepmother's voice said on the recording, clear and sharp.
On screen, her hand went to the back of my dark wooden chair and tipped it. I slid to the floor. My plate clattered and spun. Food scattered on the polished wood.
"But dad said I could sit here," my smaller voice said.
I watched myself try to get up. Stepmother crouched beside me, not to help, but close, her face tight. Then bright light flared in the background as the double entry doors opened and Dad entered quickly.
"Lily?" his voice came through the laptop.
On screen, Stepmother turned her head toward him, smoothed her expression.
"She slipped," she said.
The tech paused the video. The frozen image showed me on the floor, the overturned chair beside me, Stepmother crouched, Dad in the doorway.
Dad's hand on my shoulder got heavier. He didn't speak for a few seconds. He was breathing slow.
"Keep it playing," he said.
The tech hit play. Dad on screen moved fast into the room, his brow furrowed.
"You're lying," he said on the recording. "You put my daughter on the floor?"
Stepmother stood. She said nothing on camera after that; she just stepped back. Then Dad was kneeling, wrapping me from behind the way he had, his dark navy jacket around me.
Stepmother, standing in our real dining room watching the laptop, made a small sound. Her fair skin had gone almost white. Her blue eyes were wide and a tear ran down without her wiping it.
"Stop it," she whispered. Not to the tech — to Dad. "You don't need to see more."
Dad looked at her, then at the screen, then at me. He put his hand over my eyes for a second, not to hide it from me — I'd lived it — but to say he was here.
"Save that file in two places," he told the tech. His voice was very low. "One for us, one for Mr. Patel."
The tech nodded and copied the drive to a small black USB stick. He handed it to Dad. Dad slid it into the same jacket pocket where the silver skeleton key was zipped.
May you like
Stepmother stared at that pocket. She understood. The camera had taken her story and replaced it with something no one could argue with.
"It recorded everything," Dad said quietly, repeating the words from the night before, but now they weren't a warning. They were a fact.
