I click.
A program opens, displaying the cameras across the house. I vaguely remember Pete whizzing through this yesterday. I go to the video history, which contains rows of videos, labelled with dates and times. My stomach drops. This is it. This is what Emma was talking about. The house is riddled with cameras.
I open one at random — two days ago, kitchen. The video plays in eerie silence. Pete is there, standing by the counter, shoulders tight. James is making a cup of coffee. A simple daily task. There’s no audio, but the body language is clear.
I open another. Empty dining room, then Pete wanders in to set the table. I flip through a few more. Same story. Mundane life at the house. So many files, this could take forever.
And I don’t have time.
What else is on this laptop?
I pull up a Finder window and search “Video”. Reams of videos files pop up. I can see from the thumbnails a lot are from the CCTV files. I click on one. A video pops up and starts playing. It’s from the kitchen: James is screaming at Pete, his arms flying around in the air in anger. I click back to the file, select it and select Show in EnclosingFolder. A folder pops up full of video files, just simply called Saved Files. There must be 25 videos in here. I click on another. A video of James in the dining room; this time he hurls a plate across the room at Pete which nearly hits him.
These have been saved for a reason. I’ve got no time to look at them all, but this is evidence. Real evidence. Emma was right.
I need to save them.
In preparation for this, I had come armed with a small USB stick, which I whip out of my pocket like some criminal mastermind. I go to slot it, but after several attempts, I deflate.
There are no fucking USB ports in this stupid MacBook.
Fuck you, Tim Cook.
I panic-look around the desk, in a few drawers and to my delight, like a ray of sunshine, there’s a Mac-compatible memory stick.
This will do nicely.
I slot it in, copy the folder of saved videos. The progress bar creeps across the screen with agonising slowness, like it’s mocking me.
Every second feels like a countdown.
In the meantime, I flip back to the SecureTech UI and delete the most recent recordings, me rummaging around the kitchen and dining room. Gone.
I can slide out the back again without being noticed.
I truly am an actual lawless virtuoso.
And then—
A sound.
The faintest click. A door shutting?
My whole body locks up. The progress bar crawls. 47%. 52%.
Footsteps. Definite footsteps.
No. No no no.
64%
I glance at the watch on my wrist, the Mac glowing in front of me, the files still copying. Every instinct in me screams to run, but the transfer isn’t done. If I pull it out now, the files might be useless.
76%
The footsteps grow closer.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, heart battering like it’s trying to escape. Whoever’s here, they’re inside the house.
