“Get out of our way, Patricia,” my father said, his voice dropping an octave.

“You have no right to interfere in her marriage,” Courtney chimed in, a smirk growing on her face.

“She is starving,” my father said, his eyes drilling into her. “And she is my daughter.”

He pushed past them, his shoulder catching Patricia’s sleeve.

She gasped, stumbling back into the hallway wall, but she did not try to grab him.

We reached his black truck, parked idling in the driveway.

The exhaust curled in the freezing air like thick white smoke.

He settled me into the passenger seat and strapped Owen’s carrier into the back.

Before he closed my door, I reached into my torn coat pocket.

My fingers closed around the small, black plastic cube of the baby monitor receiver.

“I hid the camera under the dresser,” I whispered, handing it to him. “I turned on the local storage.”

My father took the device, his thumb rubbing the plastic edge.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and plugged the receiver into his dashboard screen.

The screen flickered to life, showing a grainy angle of my bedroom floor.

He pressed the play button on the latest saved file.

The audio crackled through the truck’s speakers, cutting through the hum of the heater.

“Sign the papers, Hannah,” Courtney’s voice sneered from the speaker.

There was a sharp, wet slap, followed by my own muffled cry.

“You’re acting like a child,” Patricia’s voice said next on the recording. “Sign them, and we will let you feed him.”

My father’s grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

“They hit you,” he whispered, looking at the dark purple bruises on my wrists.

“Every day,” I said, tears finally spilling over my cheeks.

On the screen, the audio kept playing.

Another voice entered the recording, muffled but distinct.

It was Ethan.