Patricia had been testing the boundaries of our marriage long before the parking lot.
I just hadn't called them tests.
I had called them misunderstandings.
When Daniel and I first started dating, she would arrive at his apartment without calling.
"Family doesn't need appointments," she said.
After I moved in, she continued doing it.
The first time she walked in while I was changing clothes, she laughed and told me I shouldn't be embarrassed around another woman.
Daniel changed the lock that weekend because I insisted.
Patricia cried.
Not loudly.
That would have been easier.
She sat at our kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a coffee cup and told Daniel she felt as if she'd lost her son.
I apologized to her.
That still embarrassed me when I remembered it.
Over the years, I became skilled at making myself smaller around her.
If she criticized my cooking, I laughed.
If she rearranged things in our kitchen, I put them back after she left.
If she told Daniel I was "sensitive," I tried to prove I wasn't.
Then I became pregnant.
Patricia became different.
More interested.
More present.
More entitled.
My baby shower somehow became the shower she had always imagined throwing for her grandchild.
The nursery colors were too dull.
My stroller was too expensive.
Breastfeeding was "unnecessary pressure."
My plan to limit hospital visitors was "cruel."
Every disagreement ended the same way.
Patricia would say, "I'm only trying to help."
And Daniel would say, "You know how she is."
For years, that sentence had ended arguments.
You know how she is.
As if her personality were weather.
Something that happened to all of us.
Something no one could change.
But in the days after the parking lot, the sentence began to sound different.
It sounded like permission.
Patricia called Daniel constantly.
She did not call me.
Then she started contacting relatives.
Daniel's aunt texted me three days after the incident.
I hope you and Patricia can work through whatever happened. She loves that baby already.
Whatever happened.
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then Daniel's cousin sent another.
Pregnancy stress can make everything feel bigger than it is. Take care of yourself.
I showed Daniel.
He looked uncomfortable.
"Mom shouldn't be discussing it with everyone."
"What is she telling them?"
"I don't know."
"You do know."
He didn't answer.
"What is she saying, Daniel?"
He sat on the edge of our bed.
"She thinks you're exaggerating because you don't want her involved."
I laughed once.
There was nothing funny in it.
"And you?"
"I think something happened."
"Something happened."
"I know."
"No. You know I'm saying your mother locked me inside a closed vehicle in hot weather and walked away."
He looked down.
"I know what you're saying."
There it was again.
Not I believe you.
I know what you're saying.
I slept in the nursery that night.
There wasn't a bed in there yet, only the recliner Daniel had assembled two weeks earlier.
I curled sideways as much as my stomach allowed and listened to the hum of the air conditioner.
Every time it stopped, I woke up sweating.
And every time I woke up, I heard that click again.
Click.
Locked.
Click.
Trapped.
Click.
Patricia walking away.
By morning, I had made a decision.
I wasn't going to argue about memory anymore.
I was going to prove what happened.
The store manager called me that afternoon.
His name was Mr. Bennett.
He wanted to follow up about the incident because Kayla had filed an internal report.
My heart sped up.
"Are there cameras in the parking lot?"
There was a pause.
"Yes."
"Would they show my car?"
"Possibly."
"Can I see the footage?"
"I'm afraid we generally can't release surveillance video directly without a formal request."
"Can you preserve it?"
Another pause.
"For how long?"
"Please."
My voice cracked.
"I need you not to delete it."
Mr. Bennett softened.
"I can flag the relevant time period and speak to our loss-prevention department."
"When do recordings get overwritten?"
"It varies by system."
"Could it happen soon?"
"Potentially."
I sat upright.
"Then please preserve it."
"I'll make a note today."
That was the first piece of hope I'd felt.
When Daniel came home, I told him there might be video.
His expression startled me.
Relief flashed across his face.
"You really want to do that?"
"Do what?"
"Get security footage."
"Yes."
