Then I checked the porch camera archive. Caleb had disabled cloud storage for “bandwidth reasons” three months earlier. Of course he had. But there were still local event logs, enough to show door openings, late-night motion, deleted clips without video. Deletions are their own kind of evidence when placed beside other records.
I saved those too.
At 9:34, I sent Caleb the line.
We need to communicate through my attorney Do not come to the house
I hated the missing period. I had copied Maya’s exact wording and removed punctuation because she said the flatter the better.
His response arrived instantly.
What are you talking about
Then:
Attorney??? Are you insane?
Then:
Lena call me now.
I did not answer.
I forwarded the messages to Maya.
When I pulled into the driveway, Caleb’s car was not there.
That surprised me.
The blinds were half open. Porch light off. Wreath still on the door. Everything looked normal, which is what betrayal depends on: the world keeping its face.
The locksmith arrived five minutes after I did, driving a white van with no logo. He was in his late fifties, gray beard, quiet eyes, tool bag in hand.
“You have paperwork?” he asked gently.