Chapter 2: The Hidden Recording
I stared at the screen.
For a few seconds, I convinced myself I was seeing things.
The man standing behind Wendy couldn’t be Ethan.
Not my brother.
Not the person who had hugged my mother at Thanksgiving and called her “the strongest woman alive.””
Not the person who had told me, “Luca, family takes care of family.””
But the camera didn’t lie.
The timestamp at the bottom of the video showed it had been recorded twelve days earlier.
I watched again.
Ethan walked into the kitchen carrying a brown leather folder.
Wendy looked at him like she had been waiting.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Waiting.
My stomach twisted.
I turned the volume higher.
The audio was distorted, but I could still hear pieces.
“You’re sure he hasn’t noticed?”” Ethan asked.
Wendy leaned against the counter.
“No. Luca believes whatever I tell him.””
That sentence hit harder than I expected.
Because it was true.
I had believed her.
I had defended her.
I had told everyone how lucky I was to have a wife who “stepped up” when my mother needed help.
I watched the video continue.
Ethan placed the folder on the counter.
“Once she signs, it’s done.””
My heart stopped.
Signs?
What was he talking about?
Wendy picked up the folder.
“She won’t sign anything if she knows what it is.””
Ethan smiled.
“Then don’t let her know.””
I felt a wave of nausea.
I paused the video.
My hands were shaking.
There were too many questions.
Why was my brother involved?
What did my mother have to sign?
And why did Wendy look so comfortable discussing something that clearly involved hiding the truth from me?
I rewound the footage.
This time, I focused on the details.
The way Ethan avoided looking at the camera.
The way Wendy lowered her voice.
The way they both kept glancing toward the hallway.
They weren’t having a casual conversation.
They were planning something.
I clicked on another video file.
The camera had recorded hours of footage.
Most of it was ordinary.
My mother walking slowly into the kitchen.
Wendy checking her phone.
Empty rooms.
Then another clip caught my attention.
The title was simply:
*Kitchen_03_12_9PM*
I opened it.
The video started with my mother sitting at the table.
She looked exhausted.
Wendy stood across from her.
“You need to understand your situation,” Wendy said.
My mother looked confused.
“My situation?””
“Yes.””
Wendy placed a stack of papers in front of her.
“You don’t have many options.””
My mother stared at the papers.
“What are these?””
“A simple agreement.””
My mother pushed them away.
“I don’t understand.””
Wendy smiled.
That smile made my blood run cold.
“You don’t need to understand everything.””
My mother looked frightened.
“I want Luca to see this.””
Wendy’s expression changed.
“No.””
The word was sharp.
Immediate.
“You don’t involve Luca.””
My mother slowly stood.
“I have a right to talk to my son.””
Wendy stepped forward.
“You have a place to sleep because of my kindness.””
I clenched my fist.
I wanted to reach through the screen.
I wanted to stop it.
But I forced myself to keep watching.
Because I needed the truth.
My mother looked down.
“I never asked for much.””
Wendy laughed softly.
“No, you just expect everyone else to sacrifice for you.””
“That’s not fair.””
“Fair?””
Wendy pointed toward the papers.
“You know what’s fair? Making sure Luca doesn’t lose everything because you refuse to cooperate.””
My breathing became heavier.
Lose everything?
What did that mean?
The video ended.
I sat frozen in my chair.
My mother had been trying to tell me.
She had been leaving clues.
And I had missed every single one.
A knock came at the door.
I quickly closed the laptop.
“Luca?””
It was Ethan.
I stared at the door.
My own brother.
The person in the recording.
“Come in.””
The door opened.
Ethan stepped inside.
He looked tired.
Concerned.
Almost believable.
That made me even angrier.
“You’re still awake?””
I looked at him.
“Couldn’t sleep.””
He glanced toward the hallway.
“How’s Mom?””
The question almost made me laugh.
“You tell me.””
His face changed slightly.
“What does that mean?””
I stood up.
“How long have you known?””
Ethan froze.
“Known what?””
I walked closer.
“How long have you known what Wendy was doing?””
His expression hardened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.””
I turned my laptop around.
Pressed play.
The video started.
Ethan watched himself walk into the kitchen.
For the first time that night, he looked nervous.
When the clip ended, silence filled the room.
I waited.
I wanted him to deny it.
I wanted him to tell me there was some explanation.
Instead, he rubbed his face.
“Luca…”
“No.””
My voice was low.
“Don’t say my name like you’re the victim.””
He looked away.
“You don’t understand.””
“Then explain.””
“It’s complicated.””
I laughed once.
A bitter sound.
“My mother was eating garbage from the floor.””
Ethan flinched.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.””
The sentence made me stop.
“Wasn’t supposed to happen?””
He looked at me.
“We were only trying to get her to cooperate.””
My blood went cold.
“We?””
He didn’t answer.
I stepped closer.
“You and Wendy.””
Ethan sat down heavily.
“Luca, listen to me.””
“No. You listen.””
My voice cracked.
“You watched this happen.””
He looked down.
“I didn’t know it would get this bad.””
“That’s your defense?””
“No.””
He shook his head.
“I’m saying we never planned for her to get hurt.””
I stared at him.
“Then what exactly did you plan?””
Ethan stayed silent.
That silence told me enough.
I walked to the window.
Outside, the neighborhood was quiet.
People were sleeping.
Families were sitting in their homes.
No one knew what was happening inside mine.
Finally, Ethan spoke.
“Mom owns something valuable.””
I slowly turned around.
“What?””
“The house.””
I frowned.
“The house?””
He nodded.
“Before Dad died, he put everything into her name.””
I already knew that.
My father had left the property to my mother because it was the only stable thing he could give her.
“She has the house,” Ethan continued.
“And?””
“And after she’s gone, it goes to us.””
My expression changed.
“We?””
Ethan swallowed.
“Both of us.””
I understood.
Slowly.
Painfully.
They weren’t trying to control my mother because she was difficult.
They were trying to control her because she was valuable.
My own family had looked at the woman who raised us and seen an asset.
A signature.
A house.
A number.
I felt something inside me go completely silent.
“What did you want her to sign?””
Ethan didn’t answer.
“Ethan.””
He closed his eyes.
“A transfer agreement.””
My hands curled into fists.
“You wanted her to give you the house.””
“She was going to lose it anyway.””
“Because of you?””
“No.””
He stood up.
“You don’t understand. Mom can’t take care of herself anymore.””
I looked at him.
“She was starving.””
His face tightened.
“That wasn’t the plan.””
Again.
That phrase.
Not “I’m sorry.””
Not “I was wrong.””
Just excuses.
I walked toward the door.
Ethan looked alarmed.
“Where are you going?””
“To get answers.””
“Luca, don’t make this worse.””
I stopped.
Slowly turned.
“Worse for who?””
He had no response.
I left him standing there.
But as I walked down the hallway toward my mother’s room, my phone buzzed.
Another message.
Same unknown number.
This time, there was no picture.
May you like
Only a sentence.
*“You found the kitchen recordings. Good. Now check the hospital records from the day your mother ‘fell.’ The injury was not an accident.””*
