On the screen, Patricia grabbed the wine bottle by the neck.

She stepped forward, her movements erratic.

My brother Daniel was standing in the background, watching.

“Don’t do this, Aunt Patricia,” my recorded voice said, stepping backward toward the door.

She didn’t stop.

She raised the bottle and swung it downward with full force.

The impact was clear on the video.

The glass shattered against my collarbone and shoulder.

I fell to the floor, my hands reaching up to protect my head.

On the screen, Daniel did not move to help me.

Instead, he walked over to the counter, grabbed my purse, and began searching for my phone.

“Get her out of here,” Patricia gasped on the audio, her voice shaking. “Before she calls the police.”

“I’ll handle the footage,” Daniel said on the tape. “We’ll tell them she fell.”

I closed my eyes for a brief second, the memory of the pain rushing back.

“That’s enough,” I told Vance. “I’ve seen it.”

Vance paused the video on a frame of Daniel staring directly at the camera, his face cold.