Chapter 4 - The Ring Doorbell Footage
Mark inserted the drive into my laptop. The media player loaded four separate high-definition video feeds.
The first feed was the high-angle camera mounted beneath the portico of my parents’ home at 14 Crestview Ridge. The timestamp read: *4:12:04 PM.*
I watched as the rideshare car I had paid for dropped Emma off at the end of the circular brick driveway. She looked so small, stepping out onto the icy pavers, carefully steadying herself so she wouldn't drop the large tote bag containing the wrapped boxes. She adjusted her little red dress, smoothed her coat, and walked up the six stone steps toward the front double doors.
She rang the bell.
Ten seconds passed. The heavy oak door swung open.
My mother, Eleanor, appeared. She was wearing her emerald silk hostess gown. She didn't open the door wide; she cracked it four inches, her hand firmly on the brass rim.
Through the microphone embedded in the camera housing, the audio came through with horrifying clarity.
*“Emma? What are you doing here alone?”*
*“Mom dropped me off in an Uber, Grandma. She has to cover the evening shift at the clinic until eight. Merry Christmas!”* Emma held up the tote bag, her face split by a hopeful, innocent smile.
Eleanor didn't smile back. Her head swiveled toward the interior of the house, where the sound of clinking glasses and string quartet music could be heard.
*“Where are your mother's clothes? Why are you dressed like that?”* Eleanor's voice was tight, hissingly low. *“I told Katherine this was a formal reception. Julian Prescott and his family are here. You can’t just waltz in with store-bought shopping bags looking like a charity case.”*
*“Grandma, it’s cold,”* Emma’s voice wavered. *“Can I come inside?”*
At that moment, Aunt Dana stepped into the frame behind Eleanor, holding a glass of white wine. She leaned over Eleanor’s shoulder, scowling.
*“Eleanor, close the door, the draft is freezing the foyer,”* Dana snapped. Then she noticed Emma. *“Oh, good lord. Eleanor, no. Logan is in the living room with the Prescott boys. She’s going to make a scene. Did Kate really just dump her here?”*
*“I brought gifts,”* Emma whispered. She tried to reach into the bag. *“I made an ornament for you, Grandma—”*
*“Not now, Emma,”* Eleanor interrupted, her tone sharp and dismissive. *“We don't have the room. There are literally no chairs left at the table. We hired catering staff, and every place setting is accounted for. It would throw off the entire seating arrangement.”*
*“I can sit on the stairs,”* Emma pleaded. I watched my daughter's shoulders collapse inward on the screen. *“I don't need a plate. I can just wait in the den.”*
*“The den is where the men are having cigars after dinner,”* Richard’s voice boomed from inside. He appeared behind Dana, holding a crystal tumbler. He looked at Emma not with affection, but with the irritation one reserves for a stray cat on the porch. *“Richard, what do we do?”* Eleanor asked him.
Richard checked his gold watch. *“She lives less than a mile down the hill. The sidewalk is cleared. Emma, walk back home. It's twenty minutes. It builds character. Call your mother to come get you.”*
*“My phone battery died in the car, Grandpa,”* Emma said, holding up the dark screen. *“Can I use the landline in the hall? Just for two minutes?”*
*“No,”* Eleanor said flatly. *“If you call Katherine, she’ll start a dramatic scene over the phone and ruin dinner before the appetizers are served. Go home, Emma. Wait for your mother there. We’ll bring your plate by tomorrow morning.”*
*“Walk fast, keep your coat zipped,”* Richard added, already turning his back on his granddaughter.
*“Wait, let me give you the—”* Emma started.
*Click.*
The heavy mahogany door shut in her face. The deadbolt engaged with a distinct, metallic thud.
The camera caught the next sixty seconds in unbearable stillness. Emma stood on the welcome mat, the wind whipping her hair across her eyes. She reached out her small, gloved hand to ring the bell again, hesitated, pulled her hand back, and looked down at the tote bag in her arms.
A tear fell onto the stone step, freezing almost immediately.
She turned around, hugged the bags tightly to her chest, and began walking down the long driveway toward the empty, darkening street.
Mark reached out and slammed my laptop shut. “Kate. Don't watch the street footage. You don't need to see her stumbling on the ice by the culvert.”
I didn't answer. I stood up, walked to the sink, and gripped the edge of the porcelain until my knuckles turned bloodless white.
Five hours had passed. The clock on the microwave read 12:44 AM.
“Mark,” I said, my voice dead, flat, and hollowed out of every drop of mercy. “Do you still have the override codes for the Crestview security gates?”
“Yes,” Mark said cautiously. “Why?”
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“Because Arthur Vance just sent me a copy of the emergency injunction he filed electronically twenty minutes ago,” I said, pointing to my phone, which had just lit up with an official court confirmation. “The sheriff is serving it at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. But I want the gate logs sealed tonight. I want every car parked in that driveway locked inside the community perimeter when the notice arrives.”
***
