Without a word, she pulled a small flash drive out from under a loaf of bread.

“The house has security cameras,” she whispered, glancing behind her. “Margaret ordered everything erased yesterday. I copied the recordings first.”

Richard loaded the files, and we watched in silence. Video after video: Margaret screaming at me, slapping me, dragging me by the arm, ordering me to scrub floors while I held a feverish child.

Another recording showed her taking sealed envelopes Michael had left for our daughters before he died. Another showed her making me sign blank sheets of paper.

And one camera had caught her accountant entering the Whitmore Foundation offices after midnight, carrying boxes of financial records.

We had proof. Or we thought we did.