Chapter 3 - THE CAMERA THAT WASN’T REALLY OFF
I waited until Isabella fell asleep.
She made me promise three times that I would still be in the villa when she woke up.
I promised all three times.
Then I went downstairs.
Beatriz was waiting in the living room.
A glass of wine sat untouched beside her.
“You’re overreacting.”
I walked past her.
“Where are you going?”
“My office.”
She stood immediately.
“Why?”
That question gave me more information than she intended.
I stopped.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
“No.”
Her answer came too quickly.
I unlocked the office.
The room smelled stale.
My desk had been moved.
Not much.
Maybe two inches.
Most people would never notice.
I noticed.
I opened the security console hidden behind the cabinet.
The screen showed six cameras.
Four were offline.
One was pointed toward the front gate.
Another covered the garage.
The garden cameras had been disabled.
So had the upstairs hallway.
Beatriz appeared behind me.
“We had technical problems.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Who repaired them?”
“No one yet.”
I opened the system log.
The cameras had not malfunctioned.
They had been manually disabled.
Administrator credentials had been used.
Three weeks after I left for Dubai.
I looked at Beatriz.
Her face went pale.
“You disabled them.”
“I wanted privacy.”
“From whom?”
“From your employees.”
“These cameras don’t record bedrooms.”
“I know that.”
“Then what privacy?”
She folded her arms.
“This interrogation is insane.”
I turned back to the screen.
There was something Beatriz didn’t know.
Two years earlier, after an attempted burglary at another property, I had ordered our security company to create a remote backup.
Every camera automatically uploaded compressed footage to an encrypted server.
The local system could be disabled.
The remote archive could not.
Only three people knew.
My security director.
The installation engineer.
And me.
I opened the remote login portal.
Beatriz watched.
“What are you doing?”
I entered the password.
A calendar appeared.
Three months of archived footage.
Dozens of days.
Hundreds of hours.
Beatriz stopped breathing normally.
I clicked the first date after my departure.
The garden appeared.
Isabella was outside.
She was sweeping the terrace alone.
Beatriz stood nearby.
Watching.
I clicked another date.
Isabella carried laundry.
Another.
She cleaned outdoor furniture.
Another.
She stood beside a pile of garden debris while Beatriz pointed toward it.
I heard Beatriz behind me.
“Children have chores.”
I didn’t turn around.
“Correct.”
I clicked another video.
Isabella dropped a bucket.
Beatriz stepped toward her.
The footage had no audio.
But Isabella immediately backed away.
Her hands rose defensively.
My stomach turned cold.
I finally looked at my wife.
“This isn’t about chores.”
She said nothing.
May you like
I pointed toward the monitor.
“This is about fear.”
