Then one evening, Marisa showed up looking shaken, holding out her phone. “Your daughter is hiding something TERRIBLE from you. Look!”
Security footage: a hooded figure entering my bedroom, opening the dresser, crouching at the safe. My emergency cash and Avery’s college fund paperwork. The figure pulled out a stack of bills.
“Avery wouldn’t do this,” I whispered.
“You say that because you’re blind where she’s concerned,” Marisa replied.
I went upstairs. Avery was bent over her homework, headphones on. She smiled. “Hey, Dad. You okay? You look pale.”
“Avery, have you been in my room when I wasn’t home?”
Her smile faded. “What?”
“Something’s missing from my safe.”
Her face shifted — confusion, fear, then anger. “Wait… are you accusing me, Dad?”
“I don’t want to. But I saw someone in a gray hoodie.”
“My gray hoodie,” she said, opening her closet. Empty hangers. “It’s been missing for two days.”
Something cold settled in my chest. I stormed downstairs. “Avery’s hoodie has been missing.”
Marisa didn’t flinch. “So?”
“So that could be anyone in the video.”
I asked her what code she saw entered. She dodged. And then I remembered: she had insisted on installing the camera. I opened the app. Minutes before the hooded figure appeared, the footage showed Marisa holding Avery’s hoodie. Then entering my room, opening the safe, holding up money to the camera with a triumphant smile.
I turned the phone toward her. “Explain this.”
