My father did not move.

He did not look at her hand.

With a slight flick of his thumb, he raised the volume on his phone.

The sound of Patricia’s recorded voice echoed from the hidden surround-sound speakers in the ceiling.

The audio was crisp, filling the high-ceilinged room with the rustle of paper.

“Where is the routing number?” Patricia’s recorded voice muttered from the speakers.

On the screen, she was holding up a white document to the flashlight.

She took three photos of the document with her phone.

“This is a mistake,” Patricia said in the present, her voice shaking. “I was looking for the deed to the beach house. You told me I could look for it.”

My father still did not speak.

He tapped the screen again.

The video on the wall monitor cut to a different feed.

This camera was positioned in the west wing corridor, just outside Martina’s bedroom.

The date on this video was yesterday afternoon.

The hallway was quiet, lit only by the sunlight streaming through the arched windows.

Patricia appeared on the screen, carrying a small velvet pouch.