The first video opened with the scrape of a chair across our kitchen floor.
The detective lowered the laptop volume, but Victor’s recorded voice still carried through the curtained hospital bay.
“Sign it, Lena.”
On the screen, I sat at the kitchen table with the incompetency petition in front of me.
The hidden camera’s angle was high and slightly tilted, but every face was visible.
Victor stood over my shoulder.
My mother hovered near the sink.
The detective glanced toward the real Victor, who was now standing beside an officer with his hands clenched.
“This is illegally recorded,” he snapped.
“She had no permission.”
The detective did not look away from the screen.
“That will be evaluated later.”
In the recording, I pushed the document back.
“I’m not signing away my rights.”
Victor picked up the flashlight.
My mother’s voice came from near the sink.
“Lena, please.
Don’t provoke him.”
The first blow landed outside the camera’s clearest angle, but the sound was unmistakable.
My body folded against the table.
Victor caught my shoulder, pulled me upright, and struck me again.
My mother did not move.
She did not call for help.
She watched.
When the third blow sent me to the floor, Victor stepped over me and turned toward her.
“You said the hospital will make the petition easier.”
My mother’s recorded answer was barely above a whisper.
“Only if she survives long enough to sign it.”
No one in the hospital bay spoke.
Victor stared at the laptop as though he could force the image to disappear.
My mother pressed both hands over her mouth.
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said.
“You’re twisting it.”
The detective paused the video.
“You are hearing your own words.”
“She edited it.”
Victor seized on the accusation immediately.
“Yes.
That’s what she does.
She manipulates things.
She wants attention.”
I looked at him from the bed.
My ribs burned every time I inhaled, and one side of my face felt heavy with swelling, but for the first time in years, Victor’s voice did not control the room.
The locked door did.
The officer did.
The memory card did.
The detective selected the next file.
The screen showed the same kitchen three weeks earlier.
I entered carrying a glass of water and stopped near the doorway.
My mother stood with her back to the camera, crushing something beneath the base of a ceramic mug.
Victor opened a narrow bottle and tipped a small amount into the powder.
The label faced away from the camera, but the shape matched the veterinary sedative container police would later find hidden inside a sealed bag of flour.
My recorded voice asked, “What are you doing?”
My mother spun around so quickly that the mug fell into the sink.
“Vitamins,” she said.
Victor stepped between me and the counter.
