Chapter 3 - The Security Cam Tapes
The footage was timestamped December 22nd, 3:14 PM—nine days after Maya came home from the hospital after her emergency surgery.
On the 65-inch screen, Maya was sitting on the sofa, clutching a pillow against her fresh abdominal incision, crying softly while trying to soothe baby Liam.
In walked Eleanor and Chloe, carrying armfuls of high-end shopping bags from Fifth Avenue.
“Why isn’t dinner ready?” Eleanor’s recorded voice echoed clearly through David’s noise-canceling headphones.
“Eleanor, please...” Maya’s weak voice answered on the video. “The doctor said I can’t lift anything heavy or stand for more than five minutes. My stitches feel like they’re pulling apart...”
“Oh, stop sniveling!” Chloe barked, tossing her wet winter coat directly onto Maya’s lap, ignoring her gasp of pain. “David works eighty hours a week in Germany so you can sit on your rear all day! You’re lucky my mother even lets you live in this apartment!”
David skipped forward to December 28th, 11:00 AM.
Mark was in the kitchen holding two black trash bags. On the counter were the fifteen tins of imported, specialized hypoallergenic formula David had personally ordered from Switzerland for Liam’s severe reflux—worth over $1,200.
Mark was packing them into a cardboard box.
“What are you doing with Liam’s formula?” Maya appeared in the frame, leaning heavily on the doorframe, her face pale as paper.
“Selling it online,” Mark said with a grin, not even looking at her. “My buddy runs a reseller shop in Queens. This fancy stuff goes for eighty bucks a tin. You can buy the store-brand powder down at the bodega. It’s all the same junk anyway.”
“He can’t digest store-brand!” Maya cried, grabbing Mark’s sleeve. “He bleeds when he drinks that! Please, Mark, David bought that for his son!”
Mark shoved her arm away. It wasn't a soft push. Maya stumbled backward, her lower back slamming violently into the sharp corner of the dining table. She collapsed onto her knees, clutching her stomach with a muffled scream of agony.
Mark didn't even look down. He taped up the box, picked it up, and walked out the door, whistling.
David’s hands shook so violently he nearly dropped the laptop. Tears of absolute, unforgiving rage scorched his eyes.
He skipped to December 30th—yesterday afternoon.
Eleanor, Chloe, and Mark were packing four large Rimowa suitcases in the living room.
“What about her?” Chloe asked, pointing a manicured finger toward the bedroom where Maya lay semi-conscious with a 103-degree fever.
“Leave two packs of instant noodles on the counter,” Eleanor said calmly, zipping up her coat. “If we leave her meat or vegetables, she’ll just waste them. Lock the thermostat at 62 degrees—no need to run up David’s gas bill while we’re in Florida.”
“What if she calls David?” Mark asked.
“David is on a flight to Stuttgart’s secondary plant until January 6th,” Eleanor scoffed. “He doesn't have cell service over the Atlantic. By the time he lands, we’ll be back, the apartment will be cleaned, and if she complains, we’ll tell him she’s having postpartum hallucinations. He always listens to me.”
David paused the screen on Eleanor’s smug face.
May you like
He took out a heavy-duty USB drive, inserted it into his laptop, and downloaded every single second of footage from December 13th to December 31st.
Just then, the double doors of the ER bay opened, and Dr. Aris, the chief attending physician, walked out toward David with an extremely grave look on his face.
