“She sits in the dark,” Miranda says one evening, her voice coated in fake disgust. “Who does that? People like that steal.”
And I hate myself for how easily doubt slips in. Grief makes a hollow space in the mind, and suspicion fills it fast.
I tell myself the cameras are for safety.
That’s what I repeat as a security consultant walks me through infrared angles and audio capture zones like we’re fortifying a compound.
Twenty-six cameras. Hidden in smoke detectors. Behind vents. Tucked into corners.
A hundred thousand dollars of surveillance.
I don’t tell Elena. If she’s innocent, I’ll feel guilty. If she’s guilty, I’ll feel justified.
Either way, I’ll feel something other than grief.
For two weeks, I don’t watch a single recording.
Work becomes sedation. Deals. Meetings. The illusion that I’m still a powerful man.
At night, I drift between the nursery and my empty bedroom, staring at Camille’s side of the bed like it might explain itself.
Then one rain-heavy Tuesday, sleep refuses me.
I open the secure feed.
Just one look.
The hallway camera shows nothing but green-tinted night vision.
I switch to the nursery.
My throat closes.