My father hit me.
The slap cracked through the room. My head snapped sideways, and my shoulder struck the bookcase hard enough to knock down a framed photograph of Owen.
My mother gasped.
Then my father said, “You made me do that.”
I heard movement upstairs.
I did not cry.
I picked up the fallen photograph, placed it facedown on the shelf, and looked toward the staircase.
“Owen,” I called calmly, “lock your bedroom door.”
My father’s confidence flickered.
Only for a second.
Then he pointed at the folder.
“You have until Friday. After that, we handle this without your cooperation.”
My mother grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. Melanie stepped aside as they left. The notary in the SUV avoided my eyes.
My mother forgot the folder.
That was their first mistake.
Their second was assuming the small black camera above my front window only faced outside.
