gatherings.
They knew every line.
They did not know I had changed the stage.
Three weeks earlier, Aaron had torn through my room looking for money he claimed I stole.
He yanked out drawers, dumped my laundry, opened books as if cash might flutter from the pages, and left my life on the floor like trash.
Dad stood outside my doorway that day too.
He told me to stop making Aaron feel like a criminal.
That sentence kept me awake that night.
By sunrise, I had ordered the smallest camera I could find.
When it arrived, I mounted it inside the smoke detector above my bookshelf with fingers that would not stop trembling.
I told no one.
Not my closest friend.
Not my mother.
Not even the frightened part of me that still wanted to believe I was overreacting.
I installed it because memory is useless in a house where the loudest person owns the truth.
