The Tape Across the Cameras

“Unless you can show the home is unsuitable, custody is likely to favor Priya,” Mark said. “What do you have that might establish she’s unstable?”

Paul’s mouth curved into a smile, but none of the warmth he used for the channel reached it. This was a precise, chilly expression, almost clinical.

“The house is covered,” he said. “For weeks I’ve been steering her into fights. I saved the clips that never went into the videos. She comes off completely erratic, while I look like the calm one trying to keep us together.”

He spoke as if describing a tidy project already well underway. I felt the headphones press against my ear, and made myself keep listening.

“There’s even a hidden mic in the guest room,” Paul continued. “That’s where she goes when she’s upset. Tonight I’ll set her off again. I’ll push until she’s shouting.”

Mark didn’t interrupt. Paul sounded confident enough to mistake the silence for agreement.

“Then we take the footage in and ask for emergency primary custody on the grounds that she’s emotionally unstable,” Paul said. “She’ll have nothing to fight with.”

I stopped the playback. For a moment, I stayed still, the headphones hovering near my face.

Then I set them down. The leather felt chilled where it had touched my skin.

This wasn’t simply a scheme for a dramatic episode and better numbers. Paul was assembling a case to take Dylan from me, then keep him in front of a camera through the years that should have belonged to him.

I took out my phone and began recording the computer screen. I captured the car footage from the start, making sure the image and the unmistakable conversation both came through.

When the recording finished, I returned to the file menus. I erased the player’s recent-history list, shut every open tab, and locked the computer.

The three wide monitors went black, reflecting the office in dim silence. I moved Paul’s chair back to the same exact spot beside the desk.

From down the corridor came the rumble of pipes. The shower in the main bathroom had stopped.

I left the office and crossed the hardwood hall without making a sound. In the small bathroom, I ran cold water over my hands and pressed it to my face.

The mirror showed eyes opened wide by adrenaline. Yet my expression had settled. The bewilderment that had swallowed me for half a year was draining away, replaced by a hard, clean certainty.

I patted my face dry with a towel and went into the kitchen. There was nothing to do but wait for him to come downstairs.

A few minutes passed before Paul appeared. He had changed into neat jeans and a close-fitting black shirt; his damp hair already looked arranged. The scent of eucalyptus and costly aftershave followed him.

He headed for the island, humming brightly, then picked up his phone. “Pizza tonight? Pepperoni on one side, plain cheese for Dylan. How does that sound?”

I watched him ask, as though he hadn’t just described a plan to wreck our family in the car. The contrast pressed against the room until even the air seemed thick.

“That works,” I said. My voice came out level and empty.

Paul barely registered it. He was already moving through his familiar routine. “Good. We’ll give Dylan a little longer to unwind, then have the family talk on the couch. You feeling all right? You look washed out.”

“I’m tired, Paul.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He leaned in and kissed the crown of my head. Every part of me wanted to pull away, but I kept my body still. “This is the tough stretch. It’ll pay off. We’re making a future.”

When the delivery came, about half an hour later, he carried the boxes into the living room and laid them on the coffee table. Plates and napkins went beside them, lined up with fussy care.

“Dylan!” he called toward the hallway, his tone pitched to sound pleasant rather than forceful. “Come eat, buddy!”

A minute later, Dylan opened his door and came out slowly. He looked folded into himself. The dark curtains had kept the light from his room; his face was pale, and shadows beneath his eyes made him look bruised with exhaustion.

He perched at the sectional’s far end and drew his knees close, trying to take up as little space as he could. I sat beside him. When the cushion sank beneath me, his shoulder jerked away.

That small flinch went through me. He seemed braced against everyone in the house, and seeing it hurt more than I could show.

Paul took the armchair opposite us. He bit into a slice, chewed, then placed his phone on the table as casually as if he were setting down a napkin.

He rested it against a stone coaster, turned its screen away, and left the two lenses angled straight at Dylan and me on the sofa.

After swallowing, he bent forward with his elbows on his legs and his hands joined. His face shifted into the solemn tenderness he used when he wanted to seem deeply concerned.

“Dylan, pal,” he began, his voice weighted with carefully performed feeling. “Your mom and I owe you an apology about this morning. We know all these cameras can feel like too much, and you’ve got plenty on your shoulders. Middle school is hard.”

Dylan raised his eyes. For a second, something hopeful flickered in their brown depths. His hands loosened around his knees, just a little. Maybe Dad had finally understood. Maybe this was the beginning of something better.

Paul kept speaking, and the softness in his face held. “I’ve been thinking about what you’re going through,” he said. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you.”

Dylan’s posture eased by the smallest degree. I saw him listen, caught by the possibility that his father might be talking to him rather than performing for an unseen audience.

Then Paul shifted smoothly toward the reason for the phone. “And that’s why I want to tell you about BrightMind Tutoring,” he began, turning his apology into an advertisement.