“The security system,” David muttered to himself, pacing the floor near my legs. “The kitchen camera. It caught the fall. It’ll prove she slipped. I didn’t hit her. I just… grabbed her. It’ll look like an accident.”
He looked up at the small, discreet black dome mounted above the refrigerator. He had installed it ostensibly to “keep an eye on the contractors,” but we both knew it was to monitor my movements.
What David didn’t know was that six months ago, I had hired a private cyber-security contractor to clone the system. The camera was no longer his private toy. Every single frame of footage, every audio recording, bypassed his local hard drive entirely. It was encrypted and uploaded in real-time to a secure cloud account registered under my law firm’s remote evidence vault.
In the distance, barely cutting through the sound of the rain, the distinct, high-pitched wail of police sirens began to rise.
David heard them. He stopped pacing. He looked down at me, and a sudden, cruel smile stretched across his face. He smoothed his tie and adjusted his cuffs.
“Fine,” David said, his voice dropping into a chilling, artificial calm. “Let the police come. You fell. You’re confused. You’ve been under a lot of psychiatric stress lately. Evelyn saw the whole thing.”
Margaret nodded quickly, catching onto the narrative. “Yes. Poor Sarah. Always so unstable. We tried to help you.”
Despite the excruciating, throbbing pain in my leg, despite the blood I could taste on my lip, I started to laugh.
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