Charlotte watched the footage every night, headphones in, laptop balanced on the kitchen counter.
Mostly, it was still frames—Zach shifting in his sleep, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Then, on the fourth night, movement.
The door eased open. Lisa slipped in, robe tied neatly, glass in hand.
Charlotte froze the frame. The glass was milky white.
She hit play. Lisa set it on the nightstand, stirred something in with a silver spoon, then placed it back as if it were an act of kindness. She smoothed Zach's hair before leaving.
Charlotte rewound. Zoomed. The spoon came from her pocket, not the kitchen.
---
The next morning, Felix called. “How's he doing?"
“Better," Charlotte lied. “I'll bring over something for him tonight."
She ended the call and copied the footage to three dri
