A timestamp appeared in the top-right corner: October twelfth, two-fifteen p.m.

The screen showed the kitchen of the Brooks estate.

The granite countertops were clean, reflecting the light from the large windows.

On the screen, I saw myself standing by the stove.

I was wearing a blue sweater.

My hair was tied back.

The courtroom was so quiet I could hear the hum of the air conditioner in the ceiling.

On the screen, Margaret entered the kitchen.

Her face on the monitor was twisted in anger, just as I remembered it.

“You think you can just take everything,” Margaret’s voice came through the television speakers.

The audio was clear, free of static.

“You think you own this family now,” she said.

I watched myself turn around to face her.

“Margaret, please leave,” my on-screen self said.

“The trust belongs to my family, not Ethan.”

On the screen, Margaret reached for the black iron skillet on the stove.

It was filled with hot canola oil.

I saw the steam rising from it.

In the courtroom, Margaret covered her face with her hands.

She did not look at the monitor.