I turned and, with a swipe on my phone, mirrored my screen to the massive monitor mounted discreetly above the living room fireplace. The monitor had been installed for presentations and movie nights. Tonight it would serve a different purpose.
“Everyone,” I said, letting my voice carry, “let’s take a look at what happened in this house during the three days I was in San Francisco.”
The screen lit up.
Night-vision footage appeared, crisp and undeniable. The timestamp glowed in the corner. It showed my front door, my father unlocking it with a key, stepping inside, then Kristen and my mother following with the ease of people who believed they belonged.
Kristen danced in my living room, spinning with her arms out like she was in a music video. My mother went straight to a drawer in the hall console, pulled out my jewelry box, and tried on a bracelet, holding her wrist up to admire it in the light.
My father walked toward the wine cellar door. Another camera angle showed him selecting bottles with slow care, lifting them as if appraising trophies, then carrying them out.
A murmur ran through the relatives like wind through dry leaves.
Then the audio played.