Chapter 8 - Playing the Tape
I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a small HDMI wireless adapter, and plugged it directly into the wall-mounted boardroom projector.
“Before we discuss corporate restructuring,” I announced, turning toward the massive smart screen at the front of the room, “I’d like to present a brief retrospective on home security systems in modern residential architecture.”
“Turn that off!” Sabrina suddenly shrieked, her voice losing its sweet melodic tone entirely as she lunged halfway across the table toward me. “Arthur, don't let her play whatever crazy videos she’s edited together! She’s mentally unstable!”
Mr. Vance raised a hand, stopping her. “Sit down, Sabrina. If Camille has documentation, the board has a right to see it.”
I tapped my tablet screen.
The projector clicked on. The brilliant white screen filled with high-definition, crystal-clear footage of my kitchen island.
The timestamp in the corner read 1:42 PM—twenty minutes before the guests arrived for Harper’s birthday party.
The room went completely, dead-of-winter silent.
On the screen, Sabrina Holloway stood alone by the silver beverage dispenser. We watched as she glanced over her shoulder, opened her Prada handbag, pulled out an amber glass dropper bottle, and systematically squeezed three distinct drops of liquid into the pink lemonade before casually stirring it with a straw.
The video played on, showing her slipping the dropper back into her bag and walking out of frame with a smug smile.
My mother stared at the screen, her mouth hanging open, the color draining completely from her face until she looked like a ghost.
Preston slowly sat back down in his chair, his hands dropping limply into his lap.
And Sabrina... Sabrina sat frozen in her cream-colored Chanel suit, her eyes fixed on the glowing screen as her crime played out in glorious, unedited, high-definition detail for every board member, investor, and family member to witness.
“And just in case anyone thinks this was an isolated accident,” I said smoothly, tapping the screen again to bring up the second video file, “here is Preston Holloway breaking into my house at midnight last night to dismantle the beverage dispenser and destroy the physical evidence before the police could run a forensic analysis.”
The second video began playing, showing Preston dropping the heavy glass container onto the counter and fleeing when my mother’s voice echoed through the hallway.
No one breathed.
You could hear the faint hum of the boardroom air conditioning over the quiet audio of Preston’s panicked voice admitting he was looking for his keys.
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I stood up slowly from my chair, buttoning my blazer, and looked down the long table toward my sister.
“That,” I said quietly, “is what an unstable person looks like, Sabrina.”
