“She sits in the dark,” Miranda says one evening, her voice coated in fake disgust. “Who does that? People like that steal.”
And I hate myself for how easily doubt slips in. Grief makes a hollow space in the mind, and suspicion fills it fast.
I tell myself the cameras are for safety.
That’s what I repeat as a security consultant walks me through infrared angles and audio capture zones like we’re fortifying a compound.
Twenty-six cameras. Hidden in smoke detectors. Behind vents. Tucked into corners.
A hundred thousand dollars of surveillance.
I don’t tell Elena. If she’s innocent, I’ll feel guilty. If she’s guilty, I’ll feel justified.
Either way, I’ll feel something other than grief.
For two weeks, I don’t watch a single recording.
Work becomes sedation. Deals. Meetings. The illusion that I’m still a powerful man.
At night, I drift between the nursery and my empty bedroom, staring at Camille’s side of the bed like it might explain itself.
Then one rain-heavy Tuesday, sleep refuses me.
I open the secure feed.
Just one look.
The hallway camera shows nothing but green-tinted night vision.
I switch to the nursery.
My throat closes.
Elena is sitting on the floor between the cribs. Not asleep. Not scrolling her phone.
She’s holding Lucas skin-to-skin against her chest. Her robe open just enough to share warmth. One hand supporting his back, slow and protective.
Ethan sleeps peacefully.
Lucas is quiet.
For the first time in weeks, he is quiet.
And then I hear it.
Soft. Barely audible.
A melody.
Camille’s lullaby.
The one she composed in the hospital while hooked to machines. The one she sang only to our sons.
No recording. No audience.
No one should know it.
My grip tightens around the tablet.
Elena’s humming doesn’t sound like imitation.
It sounds like memory.
Then the nursery door opens.
Miranda steps inside, silk robe wrapped around her like armor. In her hand: a silver dropper.
She doesn’t move toward Lucas.
She moves toward Ethan.
She uncaps a bottle on the side table and tilts the dropper.
Clear liquid threads into the milk.
Routine. Precise.
My lungs forget how to function.
Elena stands instantly, Lucas against her chest like a shield.
“Stop, Miranda.”
Miranda freezes.
“I switched the bottles,” Elena says calmly. “That one’s only water now.”
Miranda’s smile cracks.
“The sedative you’ve been slipping into Lucas’s milk,” Elena continues. “I found the vial in your vanity.”
My vision blurs.