Ramiro tapped the keyboard, splitting the main monitor into two separate panels.

The left side showed the archive footage we had been watching.

The right side showed a live view of the upstairs hallway outside the master suite.

“She is awake,” Ramiro said, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“Leave the live feed active on the right,” my father said.

His finger pointed at the archive list on the left side of the screen.

“Go back to three months ago, when Rosa’s sister fell ill,” he ordered.

Ramiro’s fingers flew across the keys, entering the dates.

The archive screen flickered, then loaded a video from early June.

The camera angle was from the corner of the pantry, looking out into the main kitchen.

Rosa was standing near the marble island, wrapping leftovers in foil.

Patricia walked into the frame wearing a silk robe and holding a glass of water.

She did not look like the gentle woman who smiled at our family dinners.

Her face was cold, her jaw set in a hard line.

On the screen, Patricia leaned against the counter and crossed her arms.