On the screen, her arm swung forward in a fast, violent arc.

The pale yellow oil splashed across my face and neck.

I saw myself fall to the tile floor, my hands clawing at my skin.

The sound that came from the speakers was a high, thin scream.

It was a sound I had tried to forget every night in the hospital.

Rachel squeezed my hand tighter, her fingernails pressing into my palm.

I did not look away from the screen.

The video continued.

Ethan entered the kitchen three minutes later. He did not run to me.

He walked to the counter, picked up a pen, and grabbed a stack of papers from the drawer.

He knelt beside me while I was semi-conscious on the floor.

He took my right hand, pressed my thumb onto an ink pad, and forced my print onto the signature line of the property transfer documents.

“Sign it, Natalie,” his voice on the recording was a whisper.

“It’s over now.”

Then he looked directly at the camera, walked over to the wall unit, and pulled the power cord.