I didn't wait until morning.
The moment we returned to the Whitmore house, I kicked off my shoes, changed into pajamas, tied my wet hair back, and went straight to the security office off the kitchen.
Michael followed me.
“Anna, it's nearly midnight.”
“So?”
“You're exhausted.”
“I'm pregnant, Michael. I'm not dying.”
“I didn't say you were.”
“No. Everyone just keeps speaking to me as if pregnancy means I've lost the ability to know when someone is hurting me.”
He flinched.
That should have satisfied me.
It didn't.
I turned toward the security monitor.
The Whitmore house was large enough to have cameras at nearly every exterior entrance and several interior common areas. Diane claimed they were necessary because of the family's antiques, artwork, and frequent charity events.
The dressing room I had used was technically part of the upstairs guest suite.
A camera faced its entrance from inside the hallway.
If Diane had gone in, it would show her entering.
If she had carried scissors, perhaps it would show that too.
I woke the night security employee, a tired man named Paul, who appeared on the video call with one side of his hair flattened.
He guided me through the archive.
“Camera twelve,” I said.
“What time?”
“Between four and five this afternoon.”
I found the correct folder.
Clicked.
Nothing.
A message appeared.
FILE NOT FOUND.
I tried again.
The footage from three to four existed.
The footage from five to six existed.
Four to five was gone.
I stared at the screen.
Michael leaned over my shoulder.
“Could it be a system error?”
I looked at him.
“Only that hour?”
He didn't answer.
We checked the other cameras.
The camera at the bottom of the staircase had footage.
The west hallway had footage.
The front entrance had footage.
Only camera twelve—the one watching the guest dressing-room entrance—was missing its recording from the exact hour my dress had been destroyed.
Paul logged in remotely.
His voice became more serious.
“That wasn't an automatic overwrite.”
My heart began pounding.
“What does that mean?”
“It looks manually deleted.”
Michael straightened.
“Who can do that?”
“Anyone with administrator access.”
“How many people?”
Paul hesitated.
“Mr. Whitmore. Mrs. Whitmore. You. And me.”
My skin went cold.
Michael looked at me.
I could see the thought forming before he spoke.
“Mom has access.”
“Yes.”
“So do you.”
The words landed harder than the water had.
I turned slowly.
“What did you just say?”
“I didn't mean—”
“You think I deleted it?”
“No.”
“You just pointed out that I could.”
“I'm trying to understand.”
“That is exactly what you've been doing since we got married. Understanding. Explaining. Interpreting. Finding reasons.”
“Anna.”
“Your mother throws water in my face in front of two hundred people and you still need more information?”
He stared at me.
I hated that I was crying now.
I wiped my eyes angrily.
“I'm going to bed.”
“Anna, please.”
“I can't do this tonight.”
I left him in front of the blank screen.
But I didn't sleep.
The baby moved restlessly while I stared at the ceiling.
At two in the morning, I replayed every moment from the afternoon.
Diane entering the room.
Her voice near the bathroom.
The door closing.
The ruined dress.
Her complete lack of surprise.
The deleted footage.
It was almost enough.
Almost.
But almost was exactly the space Diane lived in.
She never insulted me so openly that no one could reinterpret it.
She said I had become “soft,” then laughed and claimed she meant emotionally.
She asked whether I was sure the baby needed another serving at dinner.
She rearranged our nursery plans because she “only wanted the baby to have the best.”
And if I objected, she looked at Michael with wounded eyes and asked why I hated her.
I had always ended up sounding unreasonable.
At seven the next morning, I went downstairs.
The house was quiet.
Someone had already opened the curtains in the breakfast room.
Morning sunlight streamed across the polished table.
I was pouring tea when Elena Alvarez, the Whitmores' longtime housekeeper, appeared in the doorway.
She had worked for the family for nearly twenty years.
She looked at me.
Then at my stomach.
Then toward the hallway.
“Mrs. Anna?”
Her voice was unusually soft.
“Yes?”
“I heard about last night.”
My fingers tightened around the teapot.
