Michael’s finger hovered over the trackpad as the porch footage paused beneath the weak yellow light.
The face on the screen belonged to Kara.
My sister stood at our parents’ front door holding a covered casserole dish against her hip.
She wore the dark raincoat she had claimed was packed in her suitcase during her trip.
Her hair was pulled into the same loose knot she wore at the hospital while crying into my shoulder.
For several seconds, neither Michael nor I spoke.
The kitchen clock ticked behind us.
Rain tapped the windows.
On the laptop, Kara remained frozen with one hand around a key she had repeatedly told police she did not possess.
Michael finally whispered, “Emily, we need to call the officer.”
I could not move.
I kept staring at my sister’s face, searching for some detail that would turn her into a stranger.
A disguise.
A shadow.
Anyone except the girl who had slept beside me during thunderstorms and held my hand at our grandmother’s funeral.
“Play the rest,” I said.
The camera had recorded in short motion-activated clips.
In the first, Kara crossed the porch and unlocked the door without knocking.
In the next, the porch was empty.
Forty-seven minutes later, the door opened again.
Kara stepped out carrying Dad’s blue document folder under her arm.
She looked over both shoulders, pulled the door shut and wiped the handle with the sleeve of her coat.
Then she stopped.
For half a second, she looked directly at the camera.
Her expression was not frightened.
It was irritated, as though she had heard a noise from a machine she believed no longer worked.
She reached toward the lens.
The picture jolted sideways and went black.
Michael immediately called the officer who had met him at the house.
He explained what he had found and was instructed not to copy, edit or send the footage to anyone.
An officer came to our kitchen and sealed the memory card in an evidence bag.
Before leaving, he asked whether Kara knew we had found it.
“No,” I said.
My phone began vibrating on the table.
Kara’s name appeared on the screen.
The officer glanced at it.
“Answer normally.”
I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I managed.
“Did Michael get Mom’s charger?” Kara asked.
Her voice sounded light, almost casual.
“Yes.”
“And the mail?”
“I think so.”
There was a pause.
“Did he go into the basement?”
I looked at the officer.
“He didn’t mention it.”
Kara exhaled softly.
“Good.
The steps are dangerous.”
The basement steps had been repaired the previous year.
Kara knew that.
She had helped Dad carry the old boards outside.
“Have you heard anything from the police?” she continued.
“No.”
