Chapter 3: Don't Play That Video
“Because I was frightened!”” Vanessa cried.
She bent down to gather the towels, but her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped them again.
“Marcus, how can you stand there and interrogate me like I'm some kind of criminal?””
My father didn't move.
I stood beside his desk, my pulse pounding, afraid that one wrong word would give Vanessa another opportunity to turn everything against me.
She had always been good at that.
When she couldn't explain something, she made the question itself seem cruel.
When she couldn't win an argument, she started crying.
And when neither tactic worked, she reminded my father of everything she had supposedly sacrificed for him.
Usually, it was enough.
This time, the security system's log remained open on his computer.
A timestamp sat on the screen.
8:47 p.m.
Beside it were the words: *REMOTE ACCESS DISABLED BY ADMINISTRATOR.*
Marcus pointed at the entry.
“I'm asking you a simple question. Did you change the system settings last night?””
Vanessa stared at the screen.
“No.””
“Did you ask someone else to do it?””
“Of course not!””
“Then explain why the system was disabled at the exact time you accused Ethan of attacking you.””
She straightened slowly.
“I already told you. I was frightened. I might have pressed something by accident.””
“You know the administrator password?””
“I'm your wife, Marcus. Naturally, I know some of your passwords.””
“That isn't what I asked.””
Her lips parted.
Then she turned toward me.
“Are you happy now, Ethan? You've poisoned your father's mind against me, and you've barely had to lift a finger.””
I let out a disbelieving breath.
“I'm not the one who disabled the system.””
“You've been trying to get rid of me since the day I married your father!””
“That's not true.””
“You've never accepted me. Not once.””
“Because you keep lying about me!””
Vanessa slapped a hand against her chest.
“Marcus, he's doing it again!””
My father raised one hand.
For once, he wasn't telling me to be quiet.
He was telling her.
“Stop.””
Vanessa went silent.
Marcus turned back to the computer and began navigating through the system menus. His movements were quick and deliberate, the way they were when he worked through complicated financial reports at his company.
He had built his career by spotting discrepancies other people missed.
I wondered whether he had finally started applying that same skill to his own home.
“There's an offline recording archive,” he said.
Vanessa's face changed.
“What?””
Marcus looked at the screen.
“The local storage unit. Even if remote access was disabled, the camera should have continued recording unless the device itself was disconnected.””
I took a step closer.
“Dad, it was still on. I saw the green light.””
He nodded once.
“Then the footage may be here.””
Vanessa moved toward the desk.
“Marcus, please. This is unnecessary.””
He clicked on the archive.
A progress bar appeared.
The computer asked for verification.
Marcus entered his administrator password.
*ACCESS GRANTED.*
My stomach tightened.
A list of recordings filled the screen.
There were files from the driveway, the back entrance, and the main hallway.
He clicked the file marked *HALLWAY—8:30 P.M.*
The video window opened.
The image was slightly grainy but clear enough to distinguish every person in the room. The timestamp sat in the upper-right corner.
8:42:16 p.m.
My throat went dry.
There I was, standing beside the staircase, holding a glass of water.
Vanessa entered the frame less than a minute later.
She was wearing the cream-colored dress.
At first, nothing appeared unusual.
She walked toward me.
I turned, probably expecting her to pass on her way to the kitchen.
Instead, she stopped directly in front of me.
Marcus leaned toward the screen.
“What is she doing?”” he murmured.
I didn't answer.
I was watching the woman who had managed to turn my entire life upside down in thirty seconds.
On the recording, Vanessa glanced toward the staircase.
Then she looked directly at me.
Her lips moved.
The camera had no audio, but I knew what she was saying.
She was telling me to move.
I shook my head.
She stepped closer.
I took a small step backward.
Then Vanessa did something that made my father's hand freeze on the mouse.
She gripped the fabric of her own dress near the neckline with both hands.
And she ripped it.
The sound of the material tearing had been sharp enough to make me flinch in the moment.
Now, watching it again, I could barely breathe.
Vanessa didn't stumble.
She didn't fall.
She didn't even look surprised.
She examined the torn fabric, adjusted it so the damage was visible, and turned toward the hallway entrance.
Then she screamed.
My father's face lost its color.
On the screen, I stood motionless, looking from the ripped dress to her face.
Vanessa pointed at me.
I shook my head, lifting both hands in disbelief.
Then Marcus appeared in the frame.
I watched my father's face change as he saw himself enter the room.
He watched Vanessa rush toward him.
He watched her clutch her dress and bury her face against his chest.
He watched himself turn toward me.
And then he watched his own fist strike my face.
The recording continued.
It showed me stumbling backward.
It showed my hand fly to my mouth.
It showed Vanessa glance toward the camera.
And then, for a fraction of a second, it showed her smile.
My father stopped the video.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the computer.
I stared at the screen, unable to look at him.
I had imagined this moment dozens of times since the previous night.
In every version, he immediately apologized.
He pulled me into a hug.
He admitted he'd been wrong.
He promised he'd never let anyone hurt me again.
But now that the evidence was right in front of him, all I could hear was the sound of his breathing.
Finally, Marcus whispered, “No.””
Vanessa took one step backward.
“Marcus—”
“No.””
He replayed the last few seconds.
The tearing of the dress.
Her deliberate glance toward the camera.
The scream.
The smile.
He stopped the recording and turned toward her.
“You did this?””
Vanessa shook her head violently.
“No. No, that's not—”
“I watched you tear your own dress!””
“You don't understand!””
“What is there to understand?””
Her eyes filled with tears, but this time they didn't seem to work.
“I was trying to protect myself!””
“From what?””
She looked at me.
I felt my skin crawl.
“From him!”” she cried.
“He's been making my life miserable for months!””
I stared at her.
“You literally tore your dress in front of the camera.””
“I was scared!””
“Then why were you smiling?””
She had no answer.
Marcus stood so abruptly that his chair rolled backward into the filing cabinet.
“You let me hit my own son,” he said.
The words came out low and rough.
Vanessa reached for him.
“Marcus, darling, please. Let me explain.””
He pulled his arm away.
“You watched me punch him.””
“I didn't know you would do that!””
The lie came too quickly.
I turned toward her.
“You were standing right there!””
“I was terrified!””
“You smiled!””
“ENOUGH!”” Marcus roared.
Vanessa recoiled.
I had heard my father shout thousands of times, but never quite like that. It wasn't the blinding anger he had directed at me the night before.
It sounded like something inside him had finally broken.
He turned back to the computer and clicked the recording timeline.
“I'm checking the rest,” he said.
Vanessa's head snapped toward the screen.
“What rest?””
“The recording before you came into the hallway.””
“You don't need to see that.””
“Why not?””
“Because it has nothing to do with what happened!””
Marcus ignored her.
He dragged the timeline backward.
The screen showed the hallway several minutes earlier.
Vanessa entered alone.
She carried her phone in one hand and paused near the staircase. After checking that nobody else was visible, she looked down at the device and began typing.
Then she lifted her head toward the camera.
For several seconds, she simply stared at it.
Finally, she walked out of the frame.
Marcus moved the cursor to another timestamp.
The recording showed her returning.
This time, she wasn't alone.
A man in a dark jacket followed her into the hallway. His face was partially obscured by the camera angle, but his movements were unmistakable.
He carried a small black case.
Vanessa shut the door behind him and pointed toward the security camera.
The man looked up.
Then he took the case, opened it, and removed a small device.
My father leaned closer to the monitor.
“What the hell is that?””
I shook my head.
“I don't know.””
On the recording, the man climbed onto the hallway bench and reached toward the camera.
The picture flickered briefly.
Then it returned to normal.
The green indicator remained illuminated.
Whatever he had done, it hadn't stopped the recording.
Marcus rewound the clip and watched it again.
“Who is that man?”” he demanded.
Vanessa had gone completely still.
“I don't know.””
“Don't lie to me.””
“I said I don't know!””
Marcus pointed at the screen.
“Then why did you bring him into my house?””
She began backing toward the door.
“Marcus, you're misunderstanding what you're seeing.””
He stood between her and the hallway.
“Who is he?””
She looked at me, and for the first time I saw real fear in her eyes.
Not fear of being misunderstood.
Not fear of losing an argument.
Fear of what would happen if someone discovered the truth.
I felt a cold certainty settle inside me.
Last night hadn't been an impulsive lie.
She hadn't simply panicked when she saw me in the hallway.
She had planned something.
The torn dress had been part of it.
The disabled remote access had been part of it.
And now another person had been caught on camera helping her.
Marcus turned toward the computer again.
“I'm saving this recording.””
“No!””
Vanessa lunged forward.
She grabbed his wrist with both hands, nearly knocking the mouse off the desk.
“Marcus, don't!””
He stared at her.
“Let go of me.””
“Please, sweetheart. Please don't do this.””
“You said you didn't know that man.””
“I can explain!””
“Then explain!””
Her face crumpled.
She shook her head desperately, her fingers tightening around his wrist as he reached for the playback button.
“Don't play that video!””
The scream echoed through the study.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Marcus slowly looked down at her hands.
He looked back at the computer.
And finally, he looked at the woman he had defended without question for years.
“Why?”” he asked quietly.
Vanessa's lips trembled.
“Because—”
She stopped.
I watched her struggle for an answer, watched her eyes dart toward the door and then toward the screen.
She had used tears to control my father.
She had used accusations to control me.
She had used my mother's memory to make me doubt my place in my own home.
But now she was standing in front of a recording she couldn't explain away.
Marcus pulled his wrist free.
May you like
He clicked the playback button.
And the next video began.
