“This is ridiculous,” Margaret muttered, her face flushing a blotchy red. “Are you accusing us of something?”

“We are looking at all the evidence,” Sullivan said.

Rachel reached over and adjusted the IV line in my arm, her hand resting on my shoulder for a brief, reassuring second.

“The burn patterns on Natalie’s neck and chest are consistent with liquid being thrown from above,” Rachel said.

“That’s absurd,” Ethan said, a sweat bead forming near his temple. “She dropped the pot of boiling oil herself.”

“And then you called 911 immediately?” Sullivan asked.

“Of course I did,” Ethan said, his chest rising and falling more quickly now. “As soon as I heard her scream.”

I kept my eyes on Ethan, watching the tiny twitch in his jaw.

He did not know about the camera.

He did not know about the small, motion-activated lens I had hidden inside the kitchen clock three weeks ago.

I had installed it after the first time he threatened to empty my family’s trust fund.

“We received some additional footage from your home network, Mr. Brooks,” Sullivan said, tapping the screen of his phone.

Ethan froze, his hand stopping mid-air as he went to adjust his watch.

Margaret’s grip on her handbag tightened so hard her knuckles turned white.

“What footage?” Ethan asked, his voice dropping an octave. “Our security system doesn’t cover the kitchen.”

“The system you know about doesn’t,” Sullivan said.

The silence in the hospital room became heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the medical equipment.

I watched the color drain from my husband’s face.

The arrogance in his posture withered, replaced by a sudden, desperate panic.

Sullivan unlocked his phone and tapped the screen again, turning the device so both Ethan and Margaret could see it.

“Let’s watch this together,” Sullivan said.

The small screen flickered to life in Detective Sullivan’s hand.