I knew, without having to think about it, that eleven forty-seven was almost exactly when Teresa usually walked down to the neighborhood market, the small daily errand that would have left her quarters empty and the hallway clear.

I opened the recording.

The footage was clear, far clearer than Vanessa could have imagined it would be, and it showed her walking down the staff hallway, the corridor that led directly to Teresa’s room, carrying a small velvet jewelry box in both hands.

There was no ambiguity in it.

She was not searching for something stolen.

She was carrying something in, at the precise moment the person she meant to frame would be gone, to a room that was not hers, so that it could be found there later and made to mean the opposite of what it was.

A cold sensation settled into the pit of my stomach and stayed there.