I watched them the way I would watch a security feed of a break-in, because that is what it was.

And on one of those recordings, my husband said a thing about the crash — a bitter, casual complaint that it had not finished the job it was paid to finish — and my sister laughed and talked about selling the house once I was gone.

I did not let myself feel it in the moment.

I saved encrypted copies, logged with timestamps and integrity checks, the habits of a career spent proving what happened on a network and when.

Feeling would come later.

First, the evidence.