“Everybody sends private things.”
Finally:
“Claire staying here made you insecure, and now you’re twisting everything.”
That last one almost worked.
Not because I believed him.
Because it reminded me how suspicious I had been of my sister.
For two weeks, I had watched Ryan and Claire laugh together and wondered whether she was crossing some invisible line.
Meanwhile, Ryan had installed a camera in the room where she slept.
I felt ashamed.
Then the police arrived.
I wish I could say everything became simple after that.
It didn’t.
I knew almost nothing about the laws surrounding private recordings.
But the officers took the devices seriously.
Especially after Claire showed them the camera in her room.
Ryan immediately insisted it had never been activated.
Then one officer asked to see the recording app.
Ryan refused.
Legally, that may have been the smartest thing he did all night.
Emotionally, it destroyed whatever little remained between us.
I packed a bag.
Ryan stared at me.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Over a camera?”
Claire said,
“Stop calling it a camera like we’re upset about the brand.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I went upstairs.
Ryan followed halfway.
“Vanessa, please.”
I turned around.
I had loved that man for seven years.
We had been married for four.
We had talked about children.
Bought a house together.
Buried a dog.
Sat beside each other through my mother’s surgery.
He knew how I took my coffee.
He knew which side of the bed I slept on.
He knew I hated having my picture taken when I wasn’t prepared.
And apparently, he had secretly recorded me anyway.
“How long?” I asked.
He stopped.
“How long have you been recording me?”
Silence.
“Ryan.”
“A year.”
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