Chapter 5: Thirty-Seven Days
The footage went back thirty-seven days.
The officer held a department tablet so I could see the screen.
The camera had recorded in short motion-triggered clips — my car leaving in the morning, Amy stepping onto the porch with Frederick, a grocery delivery, a neighbor's dog.
Ordinary life, caught without my knowledge.
Then, twenty-two days ago: a man I hadn't seen in six years walking up my driveway.
He looked older.
Heavier through the shoulders.
He was wearing a dark jacket and he moved slowly, like someone who had rehearsed being casual.
He stood at the edge of the drive for a moment, looked at the house, then turned and walked back to a gray sedan parked at the curb.
He never knocked.
"Do you recognize him?" the officer asked.
"That's Robert Bradley," I said.
"My father."
The officer made a note.
There were three more clips of him.
Always the same gray sedan.
Always parked just far enough from the house to be off the main camera angle — except that the camera he'd installed caught him perfectly each time, which meant either he'd forgotten where he'd put it, or he simply hadn't cared whether there was a record.
The last clip was from two days ago.
Robert and Mason, standing at the side gate.
Mason was holding the folder.
Robert was pointing at something inside it.
"That was filmed on my property," I said.
"Yes sir."
"By a camera they installed without my permission."
"That's how it appears."
I handed the tablet back.
My jaw ached.
I hadn't realized I'd been clenching it.
I drove to the urgent care clinic and found Amy in a small room near the back, Frederick asleep against her shoulder, his cheeks still flushed but his breathing even.
A nurse had already been in.
The doctor came while I was there — ear infection, elevated temperature, antibiotics prescribed, rest recommended.
Routine.
Manageable.
He was going to be fine.
I sat in the chair beside Amy and put my hand over hers.
She didn't say anything for a moment.
Then: "How bad is it?"
"They tried to transfer the house.
My father is involved.
Mason was carrying the deed."
She turned to look at me.
"Your father."
"He came back about two years ago, apparently.
He and Teresa planned this together.
They were waiting for a day I'd be at work."
Amy was quiet.
Frederick shifted in her sleep, made a small sound, settled again.
"How long has she been lying to us?" Amy asked.
"I don't know yet.
The money I was sending her — I don't think any of it went to groceries or bills."
Amy closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, they were steady.
"The dress," she said.
"What?"
"The blue dress you brought today.
I saw it in the bag when you came in." She paused.
"She never once bought me anything.
Not when I was pregnant.
Not when Frederick was born.
I asked her once if she could pick up formula on her way over and she told me that wasn't what the money was for." A beat.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't want to cause problems."
Something in my chest pulled tight.
"Amy—"
"I should have told you."
"You were protecting me."
"I was scared," she said simply.
"Of her.
Of what she'd say to you.
Of you having to choose."
I looked at my son's face, slack and peaceful in sleep, completely unaware of the day that had just happened around him.
"I already chose," I said.
"I chose the day I married you.
I just didn't enforce it well enough."
She leaned her head against my shoulder.
We sat like that until the prescription was ready.
On the way home, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
I didn't.
"Connor." The voice was low.
Careful.
Familiar in a way that reached somewhere old and unwelcome.
"It's your father.
May you like
Don't hang up.
I need to explain something before this goes any further."
