Over the steel filing cabinet sat the digital recording box my late husband had put up ten years ago.

A heavy weatherproof lens mounted under the garage eaves covered the whole concrete apron and the dark strip of lawn leading back to the kennel in the rear garden.

The red power light on the front panel glowed steadily in the dark room.

Arthur used to wipe the storage drive every ninety days, but I hadn’t laid a finger on the gray metal case since his funeral eleven months ago.

I pulled out the wooden chair and sat down.