The directory filled with dozens of time-stamped video files, each one broken into hour-long blocks.

I clicked on the first file from October eighteenth.

The high-angle shot took in the garage roof, the back patio and the dark path that wound toward the overgrown corner of the yard.

Behind me the study door creaked open.

Clay came in, his boots dragging over the threshold.

“Who were you talking to out on the porch?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the monitor.

Clay pushed a hand through his brown hair and leaned his shoulder on the door frame.