CHAPTER 3: THE CAMERA NO ONE REMEMBERED
The police arrived before sunrise.
At first, everyone assumed it had been a terrible accident.
Maybe insects had somehow crawled inside the cast.
Then the babysitter remembered something.
"The hallway camera."
Months earlier, my father had installed security cameras after several packages disappeared.
One camera pointed directly toward the hallway bathroom.
The place where my stepmother had insisted on changing my bandages.
Police reviewed the footage.
Hour after hour.
Then they found it.
At 2:13 a.m.
Three nights earlier.
My stepmother quietly entered the bathroom carrying a small plastic container.
She locked the door.
Seven minutes later she walked out.
The container was empty.
Investigators searched the trash.
Hidden beneath coffee grounds and paper towels was the lid.
The label was still attached.
LIVE TROPICAL CENTIPEDES.
My father collapsed into a chair.
His hands shook so badly he couldn't hold the evidence bag.
"Why?" he whispered.
She didn't answer.
Instead...
She looked directly at me.
With hatred.
"I only wanted him gone," she finally said.
The room became silent.
Every officer heard it.
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Every camera recorded it.
She had confessed.
