I say nothing. I point to the camera.
They watch the footage.
Handcuffs click.
For the first time in two years, the mansion exhales.
The real ending comes after.
After statements. After the adrenaline drains.
I sit on the nursery floor where Elena had been.
Ethan hiccups into sleep. Lucas rests heavy and calm in her arms.
“How did you know the song?” I ask.
Elena lowers herself beside me.
“She sang it every night in the hospital,” she says softly. “She said if the boys heard that melody, they’d know she was still reaching for them.”
Tears blur my vision.
“I didn’t want the song to die with her.”
I glance at the cameras.
A hundred thousand dollars of fear.
“I was watching you,” I admit.
“I figured,” she says gently.
No anger. No accusation.
“Walls don’t protect babies,” she says. “People do.”
The weeks after are messy.
Investigations reopen Camille’s death. Miranda’s sabotage unravels. Lucas’s “colic” fades without sedatives.
I start sleeping in the nursery—not because of cameras, but because of presence.
One by one, I unplug the system.
Each red light goes dark.
It terrifies me.
Then it doesn’t.
Months later, I hang a framed photo of Camille above the rocker.