It showed Vivian, her face contorted in rage, screaming that the roast was nineteen minutes behind schedule.

It showed Daniel casually leaning against the marble island, pouring himself a generous glass of aged whiskey while his mother maliciously dragged a heavy pot of boiling stock across the stove. It captured my voice, firm and clear, ordering them both to get out of my house immediately.

Then it captured the violent arc of the scalding liquid as Vivian hurled it.

Worse than the assault itself was what came after.

The microphone picked up Daniel checking my pulse, standing up, and coldly uttering the words that would seal his fate: “We need to build a better story.”

But the recording didn’t stop there.