I stared at the drive for a long moment before plugging it into my computer.
The video played.
My parents’ suburban home appeared on screen, morning light revealing manicured lawns and curious neighbors. Police vehicles lined the curb. Officers moved with practiced precision.
My father stood on the front steps, his face red, shouting, “This is my daughter’s harassment! I’m innocent!”
The words were almost identical to the words he’d always used when he lost control: blame the person who refused to comply.
My mother collapsed into tears, covering her face, her body folding as if the world had wronged her. Kristen thrashed wildly, hair disheveled, screaming at officers as they tried to restrain her. She looked less like the clever little sister and more like a child throwing a tantrum because the rules had finally applied to her.
Neighbors gathered, whispering, phones out, faces a mix of curiosity and judgment. My father tried to stand tall, to project authority, but handcuffs have a way of shrinking a man.
When the officers guided him toward the car, he looked once toward the camera—toward whoever was filming—and I saw, for a split second, something like disbelief.