The Tape Across the Cameras

Paul kept his gaze fixed on Dylan, his concern smooth and unwavering. “We know math has been weighing on you,” he said. “You deserve support that helps you improve without making everything feel impossible.”

He paused at just the right moment, then continued. “That’s why we’re thrilled to be working with BrightMind Tutoring. Their app connects you with actual teachers who can—”

The small spark in Dylan’s face went dark.

It vanished all at once. Whatever trust had begun to return collapsed, leaving him still and empty as he understood that his father’s apology had only been the doorway to a paid promotion.

Dylan turned toward me, slowly. There was no hope in his expression now, only a silent appeal: had I known this was coming?

Something fierce and protective rose inside me, hot and immediate.

I made no scene. I got to my feet, went around the glass table, and lifted Paul’s phone from its place.

The display was locked. At its top, though, the red recording symbol pulsed in the narrow island above the screen.

Paul’s jaw tightened. His practiced tenderness fell away, replaced by a wary, hard stare. “Priya. Put it down.”

I brought up the control panel with a swipe and pressed the active recording control. A notice confirmed the capture had been saved in Photos. I opened the app, located the clip, and erased it permanently.

Then I returned the phone to the table. It struck the surface with a blunt clack that seemed to settle something.

“This is over,” I said, keeping my voice low.

Paul rose from the chair, his frame filling the space between us. “Don’t start this now, Priya. Horizon Digital expects the deliverable by Friday. Sit down.”

I faced Dylan instead of answering him. “Go upstairs and pack your backpack. Take clothes for three days, your charger, and your toothbrush. Go.”

He didn’t stop to ask why. He sprang off the sofa and hurried down the hall toward his room.

Paul circled the table, anger coloring his face. “What do you think you’re doing?” His eyes flicked up toward the dome in the ceiling’s corner. Its light was dark, but I knew it was still collecting footage.

“We should talk in the guest room,” he said, lowering his voice. He reached for my elbow with a gentle, controlling touch. “You’re hysterical, Priya. Calm down.”

Hysterical. He had chosen the word on purpose. He wanted me to lose control—to shout or sob or flail where his lawyer could use it.

I let him steer me as far as the hall. At the guest-room entrance, I stopped and set both feet firmly on the floorboards.

The door stood open onto a dim room. My eyes went to the tall oak shelves. Among the book spines, between two encyclopedias, a tiny black square looked wrong.

The Apex camera. Its lens was waiting for me to play the part he had arranged.

Paul gave my arm a light tug. “Come on. Just step in here.”

“No.”

I slipped free and moved back into the hall, positioning myself where the ceiling dome and the lens by the shelf couldn’t see me.

“Priya, please—”

“I’m staying right here.”

He glanced toward Dylan’s shut door, then back at me. “Why are you making this so hard? Just come inside.”

I met his eyes. My voice stayed even, with none of the sharp rise he would have wanted the microphones to catch.

“I won’t give you the footage for Step 4,” I said.

He went still. His breath caught; his raised hand stopped before it reached me. “What?”

“Step 4. The ultimatum.” I kept my voice quiet, but there was no uncertainty in it. “Were you hoping I’d cry, or scream? Did you plan to give Mark a clip he could use to tell a judge I’m too unstable to have primary custody?”

Color drained from his face. The polished father he showed the internet disappeared, and a frightened, hollow-looking man stood in his place, staring at me as if I’d become a stranger.

“I’m taking Dylan to my sister’s,” I said, backing toward his room. “If you try to stop us, or follow the car, I’ll send the recording of your drive to the gym this morning to every Horizon Digital sponsor.”

His expression emptied. For a moment he seemed unable to move. The warm, concerned image he had built for the internet was gone; he looked like someone who’d just realized the floor beneath him might give way.

He tried to laugh, but the sound scraped out thin and dry. “Priya, don’t be ridiculous. What recording?”

“I know about the Apex cameras,” I replied, barely above a whisper. “There’s one inside the smoke detector in Dylan’s room, one on the bookshelf behind you, and another in your SUV.”

Paul recoiled as I named them, and in his face I saw the moment he understood: I knew what he had been doing.