Chapter 4 - My Father's Warning
I had believed my father liked Nathan.
Maybe not warmly.
But enough.
Nathan was charming when he wanted to be.
He knew when to laugh.
When to bring wine.
When to ask old men about businesses they had spent forty years building.
Apparently my father had seen something I hadn't.
Margaret sent Rebecca the administrator credentials.
The archive began loading.
There were thousands of clips.
Rebecca told me not to watch them alone.
I ignored her.
Ethan was asleep at my father's apartment by midnight.
He had taken the guest room because it was furthest from the elevator.
I sat in the kitchen with Rebecca and opened the footage from the night of the accident.
At 6:11 p.m., Ethan entered the basement corridor.
He was carrying a model airplane.
At 6:13, Brooke appeared.
She looked angry.
There was no audio.
She pointed toward the staircase.
Ethan shook his head.
Brooke grabbed his airplane.
She tossed it into the storage room.
Ethan followed.
She shut the door.
My hand covered my mouth.
Rebecca leaned closer.
Two minutes passed.
Then Brooke walked away.
Ethan reappeared.
He must have found the interior latch.
He ran toward the stairs.
At 6:18, Nathan entered the frame.
He caught Ethan at the bottom step.
They argued.
Nathan pointed back toward the storage corridor.
Ethan pulled away.
Nathan grabbed his shoulder.
Ethan jerked free.
Then something happened beyond the camera angle.
A crash.
Nathan disappeared from frame.
Seconds later, Ethan stumbled backward into view.
He fell against a narrow antique display cabinet.
The cabinet tipped.
Glass exploded.
The footage froze me.
Ethan curled into himself.
Nathan rushed forward.
Brooke returned.
Neither adult called for help.
For nearly three minutes, they stood over my injured son.
Arguing.
Then Victoria appeared.
She looked at Ethan.
Looked at the shattered cabinet.
And pointed toward the camera.
Nathan stared directly into the lens.
The video ended.
I realized I had stopped breathing.
Rebecca paused the screen.
“Claire.”
“They told me he fell while playing.”
“I know.”
“They told the hospital he was alone.”
“I know.”
I started shaking.
Rebecca took the laptop away.
“Don't make decisions tonight.”
I laughed softly.
“That advice is approximately six years late.”
The accident had fractured Ethan's wrist and left a deep cut along his scalp.
Physical injuries healed.
The panic attacks did not.
Nathan had repeatedly told me Ethan exaggerated what happened.
He said trauma made children unreliable.
He suggested more therapy.
More medication evaluations.
More structure.
All while knowing exactly what Ethan remembered.
I watched the footage again.
This time I noticed the timestamp.
Three minutes and forty-two seconds.
That was how long my son had remained on the floor before Nathan even reached for his phone.
Rebecca called a criminal defense attorney she trusted.
Not for me.
For advice about preserving evidence.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Nathan.
PLEASE DON'T DO THIS.
Another followed.
IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.
Then another.
BROOKE STARTED IT.
I stared at the words.
Rebecca photographed the screen.
“Do not reply emotionally.”
I typed four words.
Then explain the deletion.
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally, Nathan responded.
MY MOTHER MADE ME.
I looked at Rebecca.
She looked at me.
May you like
Then another message arrived.
YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT SHE HAS ON US.
