The Camera Feed

The handwriting on the library card was the final tumblers falling into place, locking the truth inside her mind. Sabrina wasn’t the helpless daughter caught in the middle. She was the architect of the illusion, the forger of a life that never existed.

Iris shoved the book into the waistband of her jeans, the cold damp of the cover seeping through her shirt. She grabbed the playing card with the drawing of the burning house and shoved it into her pocket.

She had the proof. Now she had to survive the fire.

The air in the hidden room was getting heavier, the smell of smoke beginning to overpower the scent of mildew. The ceiling above was silent—the crackle of the flames on the upper floors hadn't reached the sub-flooring yet—but the heat was rising. It pressed down on the air in the basement, creating a pressure cooker effect.

She waded back toward the hole she had smashed in the wall. The water was murky, swirling with the dust of the broken bricks.

Then, a flash of color in the periphery of her vision stopped her.

Red. A rhythmic, pulsing red.

It was coming from the upper corner of the room, hidden in the shadows of the ceiling joists where the soundproofing foam had begun to peel away.

Iris froze. She raised her phone, aiming the flashlight beam into the corner.

It wasn't a reflection. It was an LED.

Mounted on a small bracket, screwed directly into the brick, was a camera. It wasn't the old CCTV style she would have expected from a thirty-year-old prison. It was sleek, black, and modern. A high-definition webcam with a wide-angle lens.

It was blinking. Recording.

The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. Julian hadn't just moved Elias. He hadn't just set the fire. He was monitoring the situation.

He wanted to confirm the kill.

Iris followed the cable running from the camera. It was stapled neatly along the corner of the ceiling, trailing down to a metal cabinet bolted to the wall near the bed. She had assumed it was a breaker box or a medicine cabinet.

But as she stepped closer, the black glass on the front of the cabinet flickered.

It was a motion sensor. She had triggered it.

The screen flared to life, cutting through the darkness with a harsh, blue-white light.

It wasn't showing a reflection of the room. It wasn't a menu screen.

It was a live video feed.

The camera on the other end was stationary, positioned on a desk. The background was blurry, but Iris recognized the wood paneling. The hunting trophies on the wall. The Guest Cottage.

And sitting at the desk, illuminated by the glow of his own monitor, was Julian.

He wasn't looking at the fire outside. He wasn't watching the house burn from the lawn.

He was leaning forward, his face bathed in the artificial light, staring intently at a screen.

He was staring at *her*.

Iris felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her cold despite the encroaching heat. He knew. He had known the moment she broke the wall. He had watched her enter. He had watched her find the book.

He was watching her die.

She couldn't move. The connection was visceral, immediate. Even through the digital grain, she could see the curiosity in his eyes. The cold, scientific detachment of a man watching a specimen in a jar.

He reached out a hand toward his microphone.

She looked into the lens. And on the monitor mounted on the wall, she saw Julian watching her.