I showed Miles. His face tightened. “Did she write this recently?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But she wouldn’t write something like that for no reason.”
We asked the nurse if we could speak to the detective again.
While we waited, Miles tried something else: he logged into my parents’ doorbell camera account. They’d installed it last year after some packages went missing. My dad liked having “proof,” even if he mostly used it to complain about delivery drivers stepping on his flower bed.
The app loaded slowly, spinning and spinning like it enjoyed torturing me.
Most of the footage from the week before was there—nothing dramatic. A mail carrier. A neighbor’s cat. A delivery guy dropping off a box.
Then… gaps.
Long ones.
“Someone erased clips,” Miles said, voice flat.
I swallowed hard. “Can you restore them?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “If they were deleted recently.”
He tapped through settings, his fingers quick, steady. Watching him work was the only thing keeping me from floating away.
Then the screen flashed.
A restored clip appeared—short, grainy, timestamped two nights before I found my parents.
The video showed the side of the house near the garage.
A figure in a hoodie moved through the frame, head down. They paused at the garage keypad. Their hands moved fast, confident.
The garage door lifted.
The figure stepped inside.
And for half a second, as they turned their head, the porch light caught their profile.
Not enough to see a face clearly.
But enough to recognize the way they walked—like they were always in a hurry, like the world owed them room.
My chest went tight, my vision narrowing.
Because I knew that walk. I’d followed it my whole childhood.
And the worst part was this: if I was right, then my mom’s note wasn’t paranoia. It was a warning she didn’t have time to finish.
So why would someone who had a key… still sneak in like a stranger?
Part 4
I didn’t confront Kara right away. Not because I was noble. Because I was terrified.
There’s a special kind of horror in suspecting your own blood. It makes you feel dirty, like you’re betraying them just by thinking it. And yet, every time Kara spoke, my body reacted like it was hearing something false.
On day five, Kara cornered me by the hospital vending machines. The fluorescent lights turned her skin the color of paper.
“Jamie,” she said softly, “the detective asked me about the will.”
My stomach clenched. “Okay.”
She brushed hair behind her ear, nails immaculate. “Mom and Dad never updated it after… you know, after college. It probably still lists us both equally.”
I stared at her. “Why are we talking about this while they’re unconscious?”
Her eyes widened like I’d slapped her. “I’m just being practical. We have to be.”
Practical. Again. Like the most important thing in the room wasn’t my parents fighting to wake up.
Miles came up behind me and Kara’s gaze flicked to him, annoyed, like he was an interruption.
“What did the fire inspector say?” she asked him, too casual.
Miles didn’t blink. “He said someone tampered with the safety system.”
Kara’s smile twitched. “That’s extreme.”
“You know what’s extreme?” My voice shook. “Two CO detectors without batteries. A missing clip history. A vent pipe loosened.”
Kara’s face hardened. “Are you accusing me?”
The question hit the air like a match near gasoline.
I could’ve lied. I could’ve softened it. I could’ve protected the fantasy that she was still my sister.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Where were you, Kara? Really.”
Her jaw clenched. “I told you. A retreat.”
“What’s it called?” Miles asked, calm.
Kara hesitated. Half a second too long. “It’s… small. Private.”
Miles nodded like he was humoring a child. “Show us a receipt.”
