Chapter 5 - Counter-Offensive
Within twenty minutes, our living room had transformed into a war room. Mark sat at the dining table with Clara’s laptop open, while I cataloged every piece of physical evidence we had.
"First," I said, pointing to the kitchen counter, "we document the phone. We need a forensic export of that mirrored session showing her unauthorized access timestamped. Second, we document the laundry room—the detergent, the position of the washing machine, the exact height of the drum."
"What about the physical altercation?" Clara asked, looking at my split lip with a wince. "She hit you first. You have defensive injuries. Should we call the police right now?"
"Not yet," Mark said, looking up from the laptop screen. "If we call the police first without securing our position, her lawyer will turn this into a domestic he-said-she-said dispute. But I’ve already contacted Arthur Vance."
Clara’s eyes widened. "Arthur? Your firm’s senior partner?"
"The best family law and civil litigation attorney in the state," Mark nodded grimly. "I sent him the initial export of Margaret’s cloud mirroring activities ten minutes ago. He called me back while you were walking in, Clara. He said what she did constitutes electronic surveillance violation, harassment, and attempted endangerment of a minor."
"Attempted endangerment," I repeated, tasting the words. "Can we prove intent?"
"Look at the security camera footage," Mark said, hitting a key on the laptop.
A high-definition video feed appeared on the screen, pulled directly from the smart home camera installed in the hallway outside the utility room. Because the door angles overlapped, the camera had captured a wide-angle view of the laundry room entrance.
We watched the footage in grim silence.
On screen, Margaret could be seen carrying Leo into the utility room. She didn't look flustered. She didn't look like she was casually exploring. She systematically opened the washing machine lid, placed the infant inside the empty steel drum, and deliberately reached out to turn the cycle dial to Heavy Wash / Cold before pausing, as if listening for footsteps in the hallway.
That was when I had run in.
Clara covered her mouth with both hands, a choked sob escaping her throat as she watched the screen. Mark’s hands clenched into fists so hard his knuckles turned white.
"That’s not an accident," Mark whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, cold rage. "That was premeditated."
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"She wanted to break you, Clara," I said gently, resting a hand on my sister’s shoulder. "She wanted a tragedy, or she wanted a catastrophe so severe that she could step in as the 'savior' and take full control of your life."
"She’s never getting near my son again," Clara said, her voice dropping all softness, hardening into steel. "What do we need to do?"
