And then it did.

“Once the house is ours, sell it fast,” Sylvia’s recorded voice said, into a silent courtroom.

“She’ll sign after this,” Derek answered himself, on the screen.

In his seat at the defense table, the living Derek stared at nothing, his polished composure entirely gone.

The prosecutor let the footage run one moment longer, and then froze the image — froze it on the frame where Derek’s hand made contact with my back, his face caught in a snarl no jury would ever mistake for the face of a man watching his wife slip.

“That,” the prosecutor said, turning to the jury and gesturing at the frozen image, “is not an accident.