And she had, apparently, deleted the video files shortly afterward, believing she had erased them.

But automated cloud synchronization had already preserved copies on a remote server, beyond her reach, before she ever hit delete.

Ramirez opened a folder on the screen, and I saw the thumbnails: the garage, the interior of the SUV, the alley.

My mother had not recorded a few cruel seconds.

She had documented, in her arrogance, believing herself untouchable, almost the entire nightmare.

Ramirez rested her hand gently over the mouse.