DEVICE OFFLINE — 93 DAYS.

Adrian stared at it from the kitchen counter long after the children had been put to bed.

Celeste stood on the opposite side of the room with her arms folded.

“There,” she said. “Happy?”

Adrian did not answer.

Ninety-three days.

He remembered Celeste mentioning the camera failure in passing sometime during the summer.

He had been rushing to work.

He had said he would replace it.

Then forgotten.

Now he hated himself for forgetting.

“You thought Poppy was lying?” Celeste asked.

“No.”

“You looked at the camera because a three-year-old told you to.”

“I looked because Jonah said this happens when I’m gone.”

Celeste’s expression changed.

“That’s not what he meant.”

“You know what he meant?”

“I live with him.”

“So do I.”

“Not during the day.”

The words struck their target.

Adrian worked long hours as operations director for a regional medical-supply company. Since his first wife Evelyn had died, he had told himself that working kept the family secure.

Celeste had repeatedly praised that sacrifice.

Tonight it sounded different.

Like an accusation she had been saving.

Adrian looked toward the hallway.

“Why did you take his food?”

“He was done.”

“He told me he wasn’t.”

“He says things.”

Adrian’s head lifted.

“What does that mean?”

Celeste exhaled impatiently.

“You know exactly what it means. Jonah can misunderstand situations. He gets fixated. Sometimes he says he wants something, then doesn’t.”

“He was eating.”

“You saw three seconds.”

“Poppy saw more.”

Celeste laughed once.

“Poppy is three.”

“So is Milo.”

“What does Milo have to do with anything?”

“He ended up with Jonah’s dinner.”

Celeste’s jaw tightened.

“He’s a growing child.”

“So is Jonah.”

Silence followed.

Adrian opened the camera app again.

There were old thumbnails from June.

The most recent cloud clip showed an empty dining room.

Another showed Poppy toddling behind Jonah while he carried crayons.

A third showed Celeste passing through the room holding a stack of mail.

Then the recordings stopped.

Adrian clicked settings.

The subscription had expired months earlier.

No cloud footage existed after June.

He rubbed his forehead.

Celeste relaxed slightly.

“There. Mystery solved.”

But Adrian had installed the camera himself.

He remembered something.

“This model takes a memory card.”

Celeste stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.

It was tiny.

Most people would have missed it.

Adrian did not.

He took a chair from the table and carried it toward the corner.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking.”

“I already told you it’s unplugged.”

“That doesn’t erase the card.”

Celeste stepped toward him.

“Adrian, it’s almost midnight.”

“So?”

“So maybe instead of tearing apart the house because a toddler pointed at a camera, you could think about what this is doing to us.”

He climbed onto the chair.

The power cable hung loose behind the camera.

Celeste had indeed unplugged it.

Adrian rotated the device.

The microSD slot was empty.

He looked down.

“Where’s the card?”

Celeste stared at him.

“What card?”

“The memory card.”

“I don’t know.”

“I installed one.”

“Maybe it fell out.”

“It locks into the slot.”

“Then maybe you removed it.”

“I didn’t.”

She spread her hands.

“Neither did I.”

Adrian climbed down slowly.

For the first time, he was not thinking about dinner.

He was thinking about Celeste walking through the dining room in the final cloud clip.

She had been holding mail.

He remembered that day now.

It had been the week his attorney sent annual trust statements for Jonah and Poppy.

The statements had come to the house.

Adrian looked at his wife.

“Where are the kids’ trust statements?”

Celeste’s face remained perfectly still.

“In your office, probably.”

“I never saw them.”

“You lose paperwork all the time.”

Adrian walked toward his home office.

Celeste followed.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

He opened the locked lower drawer of his desk.

Inside were tax documents, insurance policies, Evelyn’s will, and two folders marked with the children’s names.

The annual statements were not there.

Adrian searched again.

Then a third time.

Nothing.

He stood.

Celeste leaned against the doorway.

“This has nothing to do with Jonah’s dinner.”

“Maybe not.”

“It doesn’t.”

Adrian studied her.

“Then you won’t mind if I call the trustee tomorrow and ask for copies.”

Something changed behind her eyes.

Not panic.

Calculation.

“Of course not.”

She walked away.

Adrian remained in the office.

At the back of the drawer, beneath Evelyn’s will, he noticed a folded sheet of paper he had never seen before.

It was a reimbursement authorization form.

His printed name appeared at the bottom.

Below it was a signature that looked almost exactly like his.

The payment recipient was a company called BrightPath Family Support LLC.

Amount requested:

$3,850.

Reason:

Specialized respite and behavioral support services for Jonah Hale.

Adrian stared at the form.

Jonah had never received services from a company called BrightPath.

And Adrian had never signed the request.