Chapter 7 - The Camera in the Bookshelf-7
I held up the phone screen so all four of them could see the video playing in high definition.
The screen rendered the scene from Tuesday afternoon: Heather unlocking Walter’s desk, extracting the black velvet box, swapping the real bracelet for the replica, and planting the fake in Louisa’s backpack.
Elmer’s jaw dropped. He took a rapid, panicked step toward the bookcase near the TV, his eyes wildly scanning the leather-bound volumes until they locked onto the hollowed-out encyclopedia where a tiny, dark optical lens glinted beneath the shelf light.
"A camera..." Elmer whispered, his voice completely devoid of strength. "You... you had a camera in here?"
"I installed it two years ago when we hired the nanny," I said coldly. "I had completely forgotten about it until last night at the hotel. Imagine my surprise when I didn't just watch Heather frame my daughter... but I also watched you, Walter, and your corporate handler discuss how you cloned my biometric tokens to launder eighty-five million dollars through Noraline Holdings."
The room seemed to implode.
Walter’s face went from angry red to an absolute, ghastly white. He stumbled back against the dining table, his hand clutching his chest as if he had suddenly suffered a stroke.
Lydia looked between her husband and son in sheer, unadulterated horror. "What... what money laundering?! Walter, what is she talking about?!"
Elmer’s composure shattered into raw, animalistic panic. He rushed toward me, his hands reaching out to grab my shoulders. "Joanna! Listen to me! Delete that footage right now! We can work this out! I'll give you half of the Cyprus accounts! We'll leave my parents, we'll take Louisa, and we'll start over in Europe!"
"Don't touch me, Elmer," I spat, stepping back toward the doorway, my gray eyes burning with pure, unyielding disgust. "You watched your mother shave our daughter's head. You watched your father slap me across the room. And when I texted you for help, you told me to come back and apologize. You aren't a husband. You aren't a father. You're a coward who sold his family for blood money."
"You little bitch!" Walter roared, recovering from his shock and lunging across the living room toward me, his heavy fist raised. "Give me that phone before I kill you!"
Before Walter’s hand could even come close to my face, the heavy double lock of the front door behind me was blown inward with a deafening, hydraulic breach.
BOOM.
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The door burst open, and a full tactical team from the FBI, clad in dark navy assault gear with gold badges flashing, swarmed into the apartment, their automatic rifle barrels raised and rock-steady.
"FBI! NOBODY MOVE! DOWN ON THE FLOOR! GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR NOW!"
