Chapter 2: The Camera She Forgot
Dad turned around so slowly that even I noticed the change in his face.
“Why shouldn't I open the hallway camera?””
Melissa gave a nervous laugh.
“Because it's unreliable. You know that. The timestamp is always wrong, and half the time it doesn't record anything useful.””
Dad looked at her for several seconds.
“Since when do you know so much about the hallway camera?””
“Since I live here, Michael.””
She reached for his arm.
He stepped away.
“I'll be five minutes.””
He entered the office and closed the door.
Melissa remained in the hallway, staring at the wooden door as if she could force it to open through sheer will.
I was halfway up the stairs, afraid to breathe.
She looked up and saw me.
“Go to your room.””
I didn't move.
“Now, Emma.””
I hurried upstairs.
But instead of going to my bedroom, I slipped into the little alcove beside the linen closet. From there, I could see part of the office door through the railing.
I heard Dad's chair scrape across the floor.
Then came the familiar clicking of the computer mouse.
A few seconds later, he called out, “Melissa?””
“Yes, darling?””
“Come in here.””
Her footsteps stopped.
“Why?””
“Because I want you to explain something.””
The office door opened.
I crept closer.
Dad sat in front of the monitor, his shoulders stiff. Melissa stood behind him, twisting a corner of her dish towel around her fingers.
On the screen, several camera feeds showed different parts of the house.
The front porch.
The garage.
The kitchen.
And the narrow hallway connecting the bedrooms to the stairs.
Dad clicked the hallway feed.
Melissa's face drained of color.
“Michael, I told you that camera doesn't work properly.””
“Then this won't take long.””
He selected the recording from that morning.
The screen flickered.
At first, nothing happened.
The hallway stood empty, illuminated by pale morning sunlight.
Then Melissa appeared.
She was carrying her handbag.
She glanced toward the staircase, then walked into the master bedroom.
A minute later, she came back out.
Her handbag was open.
She looked over her shoulder.
Then she reached inside, removed a thick envelope, and counted the bills.
Dad leaned closer to the screen.
“What is that?””
Melissa folded her arms.
“Probably receipts.””
“Receipts?””
“Michael, this is ridiculous.””
On the screen, Melissa walked toward the living room, stopped beside a decorative cabinet, and opened its lower drawer.
She placed the envelope inside.
Then she closed the drawer and walked away.
Dad paused the video.
“Is that where you keep your receipts?””
Melissa's jaw tightened.
“I don't remember.””
“You don't remember?””
“I have a lot of things to do, Michael. I'm not going to remember every envelope I touch.””
Dad rewound the footage.
He watched her place the envelope inside the drawer again.
Then he clicked forward.
Several minutes later, I appeared on the recording.
I was carrying my school backpack, which I had left downstairs the night before.
I crossed the hallway toward the living room.
I never touched the cabinet.
I never went into the master bedroom.
I simply picked up my backpack and walked back upstairs.
Dad's shoulders lowered slightly.
“Emma never went near your purse.””
Melissa leaned over him.
“That's not the whole morning.””
“Then let's watch the whole morning.””
He continued playing the recording.
The next ten minutes showed Melissa moving around the house.
She carried laundry upstairs.
She brought a mug into the living room.
She walked past the decorative cabinet twice.
At 10:16 a.m., she stopped in front of it.
She looked toward the kitchen.
Then she opened the drawer and removed the envelope.
She counted the money again.
And she smiled.
Dad stopped the footage.
The office became completely silent.
I couldn't see his expression from where I stood, but I could see Melissa's reflection in the dark edge of the monitor.
She was no longer pretending to be upset.
She looked furious.
“That proves nothing,” she said.
Dad slowly turned his chair toward her.
“You hid the money.””
“I put an envelope in a drawer. That doesn't mean I hid anything.””
“You counted it twice.””
“So?””
“You told me Emma stole it.””
Melissa threw the dish towel onto the desk.
“Because I found money missing from my purse!””
“Then where is it?””
She stared at him.
“What?””
“The money. You put it in the cabinet. Where did it go?””
Melissa opened her mouth, then closed it.
Dad stood.
“You accused a nine-year-old child of stealing seven hundred dollars. You slapped her, according to her. Then you told me she injured herself.””
“I did not slap her!””
The words burst out of her before she could stop them.
Dad went completely still.
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
Melissa realized her mistake.
“I mean, I didn't hit her hard enough to leave a mark. She was being impossible, and I lost my temper.””
Dad's face changed.
“You just said you didn't slap her.””
“Michael, don't twist my words.””
“Did you hit my daughter?””
Melissa looked toward the door.
For one brief moment, I thought she might actually tell the truth.
Instead, she crossed her arms.
“She needed discipline.””
Dad stepped back as if she had struck him.
“She's nine years old.””
“And she's getting worse because you treat her like a princess!””
The office door was open now.
I could see Dad clearly.
His hands were shaking.
Melissa pointed toward the monitor.
“You're letting a stupid camera destroy our marriage over one mistake.””
Dad looked at the paused image of her counting the money.
“No,” he said quietly.
“I'm asking you to explain why you lied.””
She began to cry.
Not the quiet, convincing tears she had used earlier.
These were angry tears, accompanied by sharp breaths and trembling hands.
“You never trust me,” she said.
“Ever since Emma started complaining, you've treated me like an outsider in my own home.””
“Emma has been complaining?””
Melissa froze.
Dad's voice grew quieter.
“What do you mean, since she started complaining?””
“I mean she's always telling stories! She says I lose her things. She says I yell at her. She even claimed I broke that ridiculous music box.””
Dad's face went pale.
I remembered the music box.
I remembered the tiny porcelain ballerina lying in pieces on the floor.
I remembered Melissa standing over it, telling me nobody would believe a little girl who couldn't take care of her own belongings.
Dad had told me to stop blaming Melissa for accidents.
Now he looked at his wife as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“Why did you tell me Emma was lying about the music box?””
Melissa swallowed.
“Because she was.””
Dad turned back to the computer.
He opened another recording.
This time, he selected the footage from the previous month.
Melissa lunged toward the desk.
“Michael, stop!””
He pulled the keyboard away from her.
“Why?””
“Because this has nothing to do with the money!””
“Then you shouldn't mind watching it.””
He clicked the recording.
The screen showed the same hallway, several weeks earlier.
I appeared, carrying the little music box my mother had given me.
I walked into my bedroom.
Melissa entered the hallway a few minutes later.
She glanced toward the stairs.
Then she stepped into my room.
Dad's face tightened.
The camera didn't show what happened inside the bedroom, but it captured Melissa coming out less than two minutes later.
Her hands were empty.
She walked straight to the kitchen.
A moment later, I rushed into the hallway.
I was crying.
I looked into my room, then ran downstairs.
Dad stopped the recording.
He stared at the screen.
“Where is the music box now?””
Melissa said nothing.
“Melissa. Where is it?””
“I threw it away.””
The admission fell into the room like a stone.
Dad closed his eyes.
“Why?””
“Because it was broken.””
“You broke it?””
She lifted her chin.
“I was tired of hearing about your dead wife every time I walked into Emma's room!””
My heart seemed to stop.
Dad didn't speak.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Then he sat down and rubbed both hands over his face.
“Get out of my office.””
Melissa stared at him.
“Michael—”
“Get out.””
She walked toward the door, but stopped beside the desk.
Her gaze shifted toward the monitor.
Then she leaned close to Dad and whispered, “You think you've seen something terrible? You haven't watched the important recording yet.””
Dad looked up.
“What important recording?””
Melissa smiled without warmth.
“The one from last Tuesday. Ask your precious daughter what she was doing in your bedroom.””
I gripped the railing so hard my fingers hurt.
I had never been in Dad's bedroom last Tuesday.
At least, not when I remembered being there.
Melissa walked out of the office.
Dad remained seated, staring at the monitor.
Then he opened the camera archive and selected Tuesday's date.
The recording began at 8:42 p.m.
The hallway was dark.
The bedrooms were quiet.
And then someone appeared at the far end of the corridor.
It wasn't me.
It was Melissa.
She was holding my father's phone.
And she was whispering into it.
“Once Michael hears what I'm going to tell him, that little girl will never come between us again.””
Dad stopped breathing.
Because the voice coming from the speakers wasn't the only thing that horrified him.
The phone screen showed a name.
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*GRANDMA ELAINE.*
His own mother.
