I open my eyes. And he’s got a program on the laptop ready and waiting.
“All you need to do is push play when you’re ready,” he says gently.
“Is this security footage?” I ask, my heart tense again.
“Yes, from this warehouse.”
I nod. The anxiety knots inside me like a snake as I reach out and place my hand over the mouse.
One little tap of a button and the video starts playing. It’s clear. High quality. And it’s unmistakably my father who is walking across the warehouse floor.
He looks nervous and agitated, glaring over his shoulder as he adjusts the gym bag in his hand. It looks empty, weightless.
Someone moves in the far corner of the warehouse, and my father hurriedly ducks behind a wall of crates. He waits. The person moves on. My father comes out again and walks faster toward a truck.
He moves fast, dropping the bag on the ground, and he climbs into the back of the truck and stands just near the opening. You can see half into the truck at the rear. My fatheris piling unknown items near the back door. He works quickly, constantly peering out of the truck to make sure no one is coming.
Then he hops down from the truck and grabs the gym bag, quickly shoving those items into it.
I count. I don’t know why I count, but I do.
Seven square bricks of something. Something lightweight and easy to carry. He lifts the bag onto his shoulder, and with one last glance and a creepy, massive smile on his face, he runs toward the exit and out of the camera’s view.
I sit quietly, staring at the video even though it’s stopped playing.
After a long moment of drawn-out silence, Adrian says, “We have the footage from inside the truck as well, if you would like to see it?”
I shake my head. There really isn’t any point.
Adrian moves from behind the chair and leans against the desk next to the computer, looking down at me.
He waits, watching my face, but I find that I can’t look up at him.
“My father stole all of that from you,” I mutter. It’s not a question. It’s just an observation that I need to say out loud.
Adrian nods.
“He did.”
I’m waiting for him to gloat. I’m waiting for theI-told-you-so.For him to run it in my face. But he reaches out and gently touches my shoulder. “Are you ok?” he asks quietly.
I start nodding, but then stop. I shake my head. “Not really,” I mutter. “My dad is a thief. And the way he smiledat the end… it was… it was creepy…” My throat is closing over the words as a lump forms. I clear my throat, fighting the tears because crying now would be horribly embarrassing.
Adrian pushes off from the desk.
“I’ll give you some time alone. I’m right downstairs if you need me, okay?. I won’t go far. But take as long as you want.”
He glances at me, then at the computer.
He decides to leave it on, in case I want to watch it again. I don’t. I don’t ever want to see that smile again.
Adrian gently touches my shoulder one more time, then leaves me in silence.
The tears roll quietly down my cheeks.
There is nothing I can think of to explain or excuse him now. My father is a thief. He didn’t look stressed about it. He didn’t look coerced. His face kind of said it all.
And now that I’ve seen the video, all of the other evidence is suddenly becoming clearer. Evidence that I was very adamantly trying to explain away or deny.
