“Full video archive,” he said. “Time-stamped. Cloud-backed. Multiple incidents. I’ve preserved the metadata and sent a copy to your department’s evidence portal.”
Penelope stopped talking.
Gabriel looked at her.
“Hello, Penelope.”
She smiled faintly. “Gabriel. Still making a living dramatizing private family matters?”
“Still committing crimes in rooms you think are private?”
Her smile died.
At the hospital, Sophie refused to let anyone take Julian out of her sight. The nurses accommodated her, moving mother and baby into a private room with glass walls and a security officer outside.
I sat beside her bed, useless.
There is no boardroom skill for watching your wife stare at nothing while doctors photograph bruises you failed to prevent.
There is no executive training for hearing your infant son whimper while a nurse draws blood from his tiny heel.
I signed forms.
I answered questions.
I gave permissions.
Every task felt like punishment because it was simple, and the thing I should have done weeks ago had apparently been impossible for me.
Sophie did not speak for nearly two hours.
Then, when Julian finally slept in the bassinet beside her bed, she said, “She started before he was born.”
I looked up.
Her eyes remained on the baby.
“At first it was comments,” she continued. “About my body. My family. The way I decorated the nursery. The way I held my stomach. She said I looked smug when you touched me.”
My hands closed slowly.
“She told me Sterlington women don’t complain. Then she said I wasn’t really one.”
