The night I opened the dashcam folder, the house was quiet in that heavy way that means everyone’s asleep but no one is resting. Each file was a sliver of a secret life: Ellie’s knuckles white on the steering wheel, Patrick’s voice low and coaxing as highway lights smeared across the windshield. I watched them pull off at the flickering neon diner, watched Scott slide into frame with a smile that had once talked me out of leaving and then never came home. He rewrote history in the back seat: I’d blocked his calls, returned his cards, turned our daughter into a weapon. Ellie’s eyes darted to Patrick for rescue and found him nodding along, mistaking her panic for teenage drama, his own father’s absence echoing too loud in his ears. “Just once more,” he kept saying. “She deserves answers.” When Ellie whispered, “Please, I want to go home,” he answered, “We’ve come too far to tur…” Continues…
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