A prompt appeared, asking for the decryption key.

I entered the sequence of numbers Reeves had written on a slip of paper.

The progress bar crawled across the screen.

Ten percent.

Twenty percent.

Emily was quiet in the other room, her breathing shallow and even.

I got up and checked on her, tucking the blanket around her shoulders.

She looked so small in the dim light.

I returned to the table just as the progress bar hit one hundred percent.

A single video file appeared on the screen.

The file name was a string of dates from two years ago.

I clicked play.

The video was shot from a hidden camera, likely inside the Prescott estate.

The resolution was grainy, but the faces were clear.

Ethan Prescott sat in a leather armchair, a glass of scotch in his hand.

He was laughing, his face flushed.

A woman sat across from him, her back to the camera.

It was his first wife, Victoria.

“You think anyone will believe you?” Ethan said on the recording.

His voice was slurred but sharp with malice.