I zoomed in on the live feed, my thumb hovering over the screen, and hit record. I knew every camera in the apartment was already saving to a secure cloud server, but I needed the tactile sensation of capturing them. The hallway camera on my floor blinked a tiny, invisible infrared warning as the motion sensor activated. A second later, the heavy mahogany elevator doors slid open, and my family stepped into view with the locksmith trailing behind them like a reluctant shadow.
Richard looked annoyed, not nervous. That was the first thing that made the blood in my veins run cold. He was not acting like a man about to commit a felony. He was acting like a man correcting a minor administrative inconvenience.
“Apartment 7B,” he told the locksmith, his voice echoing slightly in the marble hallway. “My daughter is abroad. We’re handling the property sale for her.”
Eleanor flipped open the leather folder. “We have the proper authorization right here.”
A bitter, fractured sound clawed its way out of my throat. I almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my mother delivered the lie with such serene, terrifying confidence that for one insane, gaslit second, I wondered if they had truly convinced themselves this wasn’t theft. That had always been their darkest magic trick. They didn’t steal from me; they simply rearranged family resources. They didn’t betray me; they made difficult decisions for the greater good.
Chloe stood behind them, aggressively scrolling on her phone. “Can we hurry this up? The realtor is coming at eleven.”
The words sliced through the digital audio feed and right through my ribs.
The realtor.
