Chapter 8 - The Frozen Footage
Audrey pulled a battered black laptop from a drawer beneath her dining table.
"Bennett is a narcissist who records everything," Audrey explained, her fingers flying across the keys. "When we were married, he had covert nest cameras installed in the exterior lanterns and the molding of the main terrace to monitor the staff. He kept the primary login tied to his private server domain. I spent two years trying to crack his password before I gave up."
"What was his password?" I asked.
Audrey looked at me with bitter amusement. "It was the date of his first trust payout. But now that we have the full document dates you photographed..."
She cross-referenced the dates on Clara’s settlement and the addendum. On the fourth attempt, the laptop screen blinked green.
*ACCESS GRANTED: ALDERCREST EXTERIOR ARCHIVE.*
My breath caught in my throat. Audrey clicked on the timestamp for the previous evening: 8:42 PM.
The video loaded in crystal-clear, high-definition night vision.
The front steps of Aldercrest Lane appeared on screen. Snow was falling heavily. The camera angle looked directly down from the copper coach lantern mounted on the porch column.
On the screen, I saw myself walking down the steps, holding Miles tightly against my winter coat. Behind me, the heavy oak front door opened.
Vivienne stepped out. She didn't slip. She didn't trip.
The video captured her face in sharp detail: eyes wide, jaw set in vicious determination. She walked briskly behind me, placed both hands firmly between my shoulder blades, and shoved with all her body weight.
The camera caught the sickening moment I tumbled forward into the dark, twisting my body in mid-air to take the impact on my arm while shielding Miles.
And then came the most damning part of all.
Bennett stepped out onto the porch five seconds later. He looked down at me crumpled in the snow at the bottom of the steps. He didn't run to me. He didn't scream for help.
He leaned toward Vivienne, patted her arm, and whispered something into her ear while she adjusted her hair. Then, and only then, did Bennett jog down the steps, pulling his phone out to stage his panicked 911 call.
"My God," I whispered, the bile rising in my throat. "He was waiting for her to do it."
"He orchestrated it," Audrey corrected, her voice trembling with righteous fury. "They knew you were beginning to ask questions about Clara. You were supposed to break your neck, Mara. Breaking your wrist was an accident."
Audrey immediately downloaded the video file onto three separate encrypted flash drives.
"Now what?" I asked, looking at my sleeping baby. "Do we call the FBI?"
"If we file a report now, Bennett’s corporate lawyers will file for emergency injunctions, tie up the evidence in preliminary hearings, and use his money to bleed you dry while you hide in motels," Audrey said, closing the laptop with a snap. "We don't just put them in prison, Mara. We destroy them publicly so they can never buy their way out."
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"How?"
"Tomorrow night is the Carrow Winter Gala," Audrey said, her lips curving into a lethal smirk. "Three hundred of Philadelphia’s most influential judges, senators, and socialites will be gathered at Aldercrest Lane to celebrate Bennett’s thirty-fifth birthday—the day he officially requests the final trust transfer. You are going to attend."
