Chapter 6 - Eleven Missing Minutes
The kitchen camera recorded almost everything.
Almost.
Police obtained Diane's cloud account the next morning.
The footage showed me entering the kitchen.
It showed the divorce papers.
It showed Diane yelling.
Then, at exactly 9:41 a.m., the recording stopped.
It resumed at 9:52.
Eleven minutes were missing.
The assault happened during those eleven minutes.
Diane claimed it was a technical failure.
The technician disagreed.
“Someone manually deleted that segment.”
The detective looked at Ryan.
“Who had access?”
“My mother.”
“Anyone else?”
Ryan hesitated.
“Me.”
I looked at him.
Diane had already told police Ryan would defend me.
Now his own access complicated everything.
Then the technician raised one finger.
“There is more.”
The security system recorded account logins.
The footage had been deleted at 10:03 a.m.
Ryan checked his flight receipt.
“At 10:03, I was still in the air.”
The detective nodded.
“That helps.”
The login came from Diane's home computer.
Her complaint against me suddenly looked very different.
But the technician wasn't finished.
“There's another camera.”
Diane had forgotten about the doorbell camera.
It didn't show the kitchen.
It did capture sound.
The detective played the recording.
My own frightened voice came through first.
“Please stop.”
Then Diane.
“Cry louder.”
Ryan's face became stone.
The recording continued.
“You just destroyed your last chance.”
Then the slap.
Clear.
Sharp.
Unmistakable.
Ryan closed his eyes.
The detective stopped the video.
“We have enough to move forward on the assault allegation.”
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt sick.
Ryan noticed.
“What is it?”
“That recording proves she hit me.”
“Yes.”
“But it doesn't explain why she was so desperate.”
Ryan understood.
We still had Samuel Grant to meet.
Two hours later, we sat inside a quiet diner across from a seventy-year-old man with silver hair and a folder thick enough to bend the table.
Samuel didn't waste time.
“Your mother stole from the company.”
Ryan looked at him.
“How much?”
Samuel pushed the folder across the table.
“When I was fired, I could prove seven hundred and eighty thousand.”
Ryan's face changed.
Samuel added another document.
“That was six years ago.”
He pointed to a handwritten estimate.
“If the pattern continued…”
Ryan stared at the number.
$3,400,000.
My stomach dropped.
Samuel leaned closer.
“And that isn't the part you should be afraid of.”
Ryan looked up.
Samuel tapped the folder.
May you like
“Your signature is on almost every transfer.”
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