My heart hammered. My training kept me bolted to the floor.

“Open it. Zoom on the kitchen frame.” My voice came out low. “I need every movement in that room.”

The video rendered. The kitchen, in 4K clarity. The timestamp in the corner read 11:42 p.m.

Dad sat at the table, head buried in his hands, defeated.

Priscilla walked into frame carrying an aluminum baseball bat. She marched toward him, her face twisted into rehearsed aggression.

She didn’t strike him.