Chapter 42: The Visitor Log

I held my breath as the muffled shouting outside the guest room intensified. Nadia’s ultimatum hung in the hallway like a poison gas, stalling Mark and Chloe in their tracks. I knew I had to act while they were distracted by their own mercenary turned mutineer.

I scrambled out of the closet and moved toward the smart home hub mounted beside the master bedroom door. My fingers hovered over the glass panel, the backlight reflecting in my wide, hollow eyes. I tapped the icon for the 'Visitor Log,' my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The screen flickered. *Log Empty.*

I tapped again, harder, my skin sticking to the glass. *History: 0 results.* They had wiped it. Meticulously. Mapped out every trace of the people who had come and gone while I was drifting in a chemical fog. But they were arrogant—they relied too much on the primary interface. They forgot about the doorbell camera’s redundant local cache.

I bypassed the main security menu, diving into the system settings. My hands were slick with sweat, making the touch-sensitive icons slide and glitch. I found the backup directory, buried under three layers of technical sub-menus.

The video thumbnails began to populate the screen, tiny, grainy windows into the recent past. I scrolled past the delivery drivers and the mailman. Then I saw it.

Yesterday. 2:14 PM.

A man in a charcoal suit stood on the porch. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn't have a medical bag. He was carrying a heavy, legal-sized briefcase and a fountain pen tucked into his breast pocket.

Mark opened the door. The camera caught the exchange in high-definition clarity. Mark looked composed, his jaw set in that way that always meant he was closing a deal.

The man reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick blue folder. He didn't just hand it to Mark; he pointed to a specific line on the top page, his lips moving in a silent explanation.

I pinched the screen to zoom in. The resolution held just long enough for me to read the bold, capitalized text stamped across the cover of the folder.

*PETITION FOR EMERGENCY CONSERVATORSHIP: ELARA VANCE.*

Beneath it, a second stamp in red ink: *DECLARED INCOMPETENT.*

My stomach curdled. They hadn't just been waiting for me to die or disappear. They were legally stripping me of my humanity, turning me into a ward of the state—or worse, a ward of my husband.

If they had this, they didn't need to dig a grave. They could just lock me in a room forever and I would have no right to scream.

The shouting in the hallway stopped. A heavy silence descended, more terrifying than the noise.

Then, a key turned in my lock.

I didn't have time to hide the hub's screen. I didn't have time to run back to the closet.

The door swung wide, and Mark stood there. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the folder in his hand—the same blue folder I had just seen on the screen.

He looked up, his eyes landing on the illuminated hub, then shifting to me. The mask of the grieving husband was gone.

"You weren't supposed to be awake for this part," he said.