I bite down on my bottom lip, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the screen as the security footage plays again.
Lewis had asked to review it after sending his trackers out with Mom's shawl—one I'd retrieved from her hospital room. Vincent and I had spent the last twenty minutes interrogating staff, but came up empty. No one had seen anything. No one could have been involved. Lewis's trackers were still searching the perimeter.
Now we were back to the only concrete evidence we had: grainy security footage and two hooded figures wheeling my mother away.
The three of us—Vincent, Lewis, and I—sit in tense, clinical silence, eyes glued to the screen, dissecting every movement, every shadow.
The camera angle shifts, revealing a different corridor, one closer to the back exit. Two figures a
