Chapter 4 - The Person Behind the Camera
I watched the video three times. Not because I wanted to see myself fall, but because I'd spent my entire life being told I had misunderstood what my family did to me.
In the recording, Sloane wasn't laughing when she pushed. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes flicked toward my purse. When I disappeared down the steps, she waited one beat before putting on that delighted, careless smile.
I typed: WHO ARE YOU?
The reply came after a long minute. SOMEONE WHO NEEDS THIS JOB. I'LL TALK TOMORROW. DON'T SEND THIS TO THE HOTEL.
At dawn I called the police nonemergency line and asked how to report an assault. A desk officer took the basic information and arranged for a detective to contact me. I sent the recording to a secure address Nia provided and saved the original message.
My father called at seven. "You've frightened your mother."
"I have a damaged knee and you used my company's card."
"We needed a bridge loan."
"A loan requires permission."
He sighed in the patient way he used to when I was fifteen and wanted to know why Sloane could break curfew without consequences. "You're very good with words when you want to make people feel small."
"Who prepared the form?"
Silence. Then: "I'll meet you at the hotel. Alone. We can put this right."
I told him I wouldn't be returning to Whitcomb House. He said he was my father and expected to be treated with respect. I reminded him he had watched me bleed on a staircase and told a stranger I was dramatic.
The hospital discharged me late that morning on crutches, with instructions to see an orthopedic specialist and return immediately if the numbness worsened. A nurse asked who was taking me home. I almost gave my parents' names out of habit. Instead I called Nia.
She drove up in a dented silver SUV, carried my overnight bag, and waited while I climbed in slowly. She didn't ask me to pretend it didn't hurt.
On the way to a small hotel near the harbor, her phone rang through the car speaker. It was Ira Kim, the forensic accountant she'd hired.
"We've found the payment terminal," Ira said. "The transaction didn't originate in the events office. It was keyed manually from a guest-suite tablet at 8:06 p.m."
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"Who had the tablet?" I asked.
"That's the problem. The guest-suite booking is in your name."
