Chapter 6 - The Baby Monitor
I could see Lily's old baby monitor in my mind: a small white camera hidden behind a stuffed rabbit on the dining room sideboard during family parties. I'd forgotten it existed after she moved out of the nursery. Nora hadn't.
Monica insisted we deliver the package directly to Ellis. Inside the cookie tin were a memory card, two receipts, a brass key, and three handwritten pages. Nora's note explained that Evelyn had ordered the main dining-room cameras disconnected before dinner. But a private monitor, used when Lily napped downstairs, had recorded sound and a corner of the table.
Ellis transferred the card using an evidence reader. On the screen, Evelyn's sleeve swept toward my head. My face disappeared into the soup. Lily screamed. Daniel said, perfectly clearly, “You shouldn't have provoked her.”
I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until the recording stopped.
“That supports your account,” Ellis said. “We'll preserve the original.”
Then the recording continued beyond the moment I left. Evelyn spoke in a low, angry voice. “You said your wife would never call her father.”
Daniel answered, “I didn't know he'd found the accounts.”
Walter Harrington's voice emerged from the hall. “If Sarah knows about North Harbor, our family has a much bigger problem.”
I looked at Dad. He went pale.
“The key?” I asked.
“Could belong to a safe-deposit box,” Ellis said. “We'll investigate.”
The receipts showed regular cash withdrawals, always on the first Monday of the month. Nora's note gave a different clue: Sometimes Evelyn hides things in the flowers.
Lily came into the room carrying her stuffed rabbit. She watched me crying and climbed onto my lap without asking why. I held her close. Not every answer had to be hers to carry.
That evening Monica received an emergency filing from Daniel's attorneys. He had petitioned for temporary custody, claiming I had taken Lily during an irrational episode.
Attached was a doctor's report declaring me a risk to my own child.
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The doctor had never examined me. But I recognized the signature. It belonged to my mother's former physician—the man who had signed her death certificate.
