Before She Screamed

The security room was behind the garage, beside a cupboard full of Christmas decorations Margaret had labeled in her sloping handwriting.

I passed a box marked FRONT PORCH LIGHTS and tried not to think about the woman who had expected to use them again.

The recorder hummed beneath the desk.

On the monitor, six camera feeds showed the driveway, side entrance, garage, terrace, front door, and upstairs landing. The hallway tile was dark.

For a moment, I thought the camera had failed.

Then I opened the playback menu.

The hallway appeared.

I had never been so grateful for an ugly piece of technology.

The installer had explained the difference years earlier: the screen layout could hide a feed without stopping the recorder. Back then, I had only wanted the bright hallway image removed from the office monitor at night because it annoyed Arthur.

Now someone had hidden it again.

I selected that morning and dragged the timeline to eight o'clock.

Arthur crossed the hall carrying a book. At eight eleven, Vanessa followed him into the study with a blue folder beneath her arm.

The study itself was outside the camera's view.

Three minutes later, its door opened hard enough to strike the wall stop.

Arthur appeared in the doorway. Vanessa stood between him and the hall.

I leaned closer.

There was no audio on this camera, only movement. Vanessa thrust the folder toward him. He shook his head and pointed toward the door.

She caught his wrist.

He stepped backward. She pushed the door inward with her shoulder, and its edge hit him. His glasses slipped as he stumbled against the desk just inside the room.

I pressed a hand to my mouth.

Vanessa let go.

Arthur bent to retrieve his glasses. She stepped into the hall, straightened her blouse, and looked up at the camera.

The tiny indicator above the lens wasn't visible in the recording. But I remembered looking at it as I came downstairs that morning.

It had been dark.

Vanessa checked her phone.

Then she slapped herself across the cheek.

Once, hard.

She examined her reflection in the mirror above the console and struck the same spot again.

My stomach rolled.

She hooked two fingers into the seam at her shoulder and pulled until it tore. Then she returned to the study doorway, grabbed Arthur's arm, and dragged him a step into the hall.

He pulled free.

That was when she opened her mouth and screamed.

Even without sound, I recognized the shape of it.

Thirty seconds later, Daniel ran into view.

I watched myself follow him, barefoot and carrying the kitchen towel I had been using to dry a mug.

I watched Arthur try to speak.

Then I watched my husband turn his back on him.

The small distance between those two men suddenly looked impossible to cross.

I rewound to Vanessa lifting her hand.

My first instinct was to call Daniel.

Instead, I took out my phone.

I steadied it against a jar of pens, framed the monitor so the camera label and timestamp were visible, and recorded the sequence from Vanessa entering the study until Daniel sent Arthur upstairs.

The clip was ugly. A pale reflection ran across the screen. My breathing was audible.

But her hand striking her own face was unmistakable.

I saved it, opened our shared photo account, then stopped.

Vanessa had used Daniel's tablet before. I didn't know what else she could access.

I sent the clip to my own email instead and checked that the attachment opened.

Only then did I try to export the original.

The system asked me to confirm the time range. I selected the whole morning.

A red box appeared.

EXPORT REQUIRES ADMINISTRATOR APPROVAL.

I tried again.

The same message returned.

I had exported a driveway clip three months earlier after a delivery van damaged the gate. My account had worked then.

I opened the account settings.

Playback access remained enabled. Export access had been removed at eleven forty-two the previous night.

The change had come through the remote service account.

I photographed the page.

Then a notification appeared in the corner of the screen.

REMOTE SESSION ACTIVE.

The cursor moved.

My hand was nowhere near the mouse.

I stood so quickly the chair hit the wall.

A menu opened. The morning's recordings began disappearing from the list.

I grabbed my phone and filmed the screen again.

The remote cursor paused over my account name.

A message appeared in the maintenance chat window.

STOP ACCESSING THE HALLWAY RECORDINGS.

Beneath it, a second line arrived.

THIS IS A FAMILY MATTER. DO NOT MAKE IT WORSE.

Someone knew which camera I had opened.

Someone had been waiting for the export request.

The hallway image froze. Then it went black.

I stared at the network cable running from the recorder to the wall.

Unplugging everything might stop the recording too. I didn't know enough to risk that.

But I knew which cable connected it to the internet. I had labeled it myself after the installer mixed it up with the printer line.

I pulled that one free.

The notification vanished.

The recorder kept humming.

I didn't touch anything else.

My phone vibrated in my hand.

Daniel: Where are you?

I typed, Security room. Come alone.

Then I checked the door and locked it.

A minute later, he knocked.

"Claire?"

I let him in.

He looked at the unplugged cable, then at me.

"What's happened?"

"Before I show you, tell me where Vanessa is."

"In the living room. She's talking to Richard."

Richard Hale had handled the Bennett family's legal work for almost thirty years. He sent expensive fruit baskets at Christmas and called everyone by childhood nicknames, including people he had met as adults.

I had never liked how quickly he could make a serious question sound impolite.

"Why is she calling him?" I asked.

"She says Dad needs help and none of us are willing to arrange it."

"Sit down."

Daniel remained standing.

"Claire, I've had a terrible morning."

"Your father has had a worse one. Sit down."

Something in my voice made him obey.

I opened the saved video on my phone and set it in front of him.

He watched Vanessa check the camera.

He watched her raise her hand.

"Wait," he said.

I didn't stop the clip.

When she hit herself the second time, he reached for the edge of the desk.

"Play it again."

I did.

His face had gone a dull gray.

"She told me he hit her."

"I heard her."

"She looked so frightened."

I thought of Arthur hiding his face in his own bedroom.

"So did your father."

Daniel pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth.

For a while, the only sound was the recorder beneath the desk.

Then he reached for his phone.

"I need to call her."

I covered his hand.

"Someone tried to erase the footage while I was watching it."

His eyes lifted to mine.

I showed him the photographs and the maintenance message.

He read each line twice.

"Who sent that?"

"Whoever has remote administrator access. Vanessa thinks the hallway camera was off. Someone helped her believe that."

From beyond the garage came the low rumble of an engine.

Daniel turned toward the narrow window.

A white transport van had stopped at the side entrance.

Vanessa walked out to meet it.