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Celeste
I’m backin the house. I’ve hidden Daisy’s gun, and I’ve realized there’s an easy way to confirm she’s using a device. Also, if I’d thought it through, it’s proof that such a device wouldn’t be at the back of my yard.
To transmit video from the camera storage, she’s going to need my Wi-Fi network. It’s password protected, of course, but I’m sure anyone setting up spy cameras knows how to circumvent that problem.
What I need to do then is access the router on my laptop and look for devices I don’t recognize. I find nothing. A bit of research on the camera shows it has only a low-capacity SSD card. It must download to an existing device on the network... like the hard drive of my own damn laptop.
It takes me an hour to find a hidden folder that demands a password when I try to access it.
The camera is storing video on my own laptop. Presuming that folder can be accessed remotely, it’s the perfect way to store it in plain sight.
Daisy made that leak in the attic. I gave her an excuse by faking a leak, and she created one, giving her the opportunity to place her camera. Then she needed to set it up on my laptop. As she was doing that, I woke up. She grabbed the laptop, ran and pretended to “save” me from a thief.
Wasshe aiming the camera at my bed? I don’t actually think so. That just happens to be where the crack is. The camera is recording private conversations with Liam or on the phone.
Why store that on my laptop? Was it just convenient? Or was it more sinister? Whatever she taped is on my laptop. As if I were taping it myself.
I don’t know what to make of that. I really don’t. I do know one thing: between the gun and the camera, Daisy is not the innocent she seems to be.
Oh, and I know another thing.
I will not feel the least bit guilty about what I’m about to do.
One stone. Two birds.
Daisy
I know where I want to search, thanks to Celeste, my father and Disney World.
Growing up in central Florida, you get tired of Disney World pretty quickly. Or you do if your family has the money to go. If not, then the “most magical place on earth” is an hour’s drive away, dangling just out of reach. That changed when I was nine and Dad started doing construction under the table for a guy who gave him two annual resident passes.
That year, Dad and I gorged ourselves on Disney. We had to go on the cheap—sneaking in snacks and eating lunch at our car—but it didn’t matter. I was with Dad. Just the two of us. Truly one of the happiest times of my life.
Today, I’m reminded of the first time we went on Splash Mountain. As the raft ascends, the story of Brer Rabbit unfolds. I remember Dad’s face glowing with delight at the clever rabbit outwitting the fox and bear.
For guys like my father, that rabbit was their idol, and the predators were the authority figures constantly dogging their steps, keeping them from achieving the American Dream. That’s how they were raised, in a world where everyone hustled just to make ends meet.
I know now that the Song of the South is problematic, but as a child, I’d been delighted by Brer Rabbit’s briar patch trick. As I got older, I used it on many occasions. Oh no, Brer Keith, please don’t make me run errands, when running errands meant an hour of freedom. Oh no, Ms. Teacher, please don’t make me stay indoors at recess, where my friends and I were so much happier hanging out and chatting. Oh no, Mr. Supervisor, please don’t make me shingle that roof, my favorite part of home construction, so peaceful and soothing.
Is there any place in the house you don’t want me poking around, Celeste?
Why, yes, please don’t go in the attic, Daisy.
In Brer Rabbit’s world, that would mean the attic contained absolutely nothing incriminating, just endless boxes that I’d waste my time searching. But I suspect Celeste doesn’t know the story.
I really want some quality time with that attic, but Celeste is in a mood this morning. Wary and watchful, as if I sprouted fangs and claws in the night. Normally, she’d retreat to her office after breakfast and shut the door. Today, that door stays open, which means I’m not going to be poking around the attic.
I’ll just keep busy, earning my keep and extending my stay while having an excuse to poke around the house, “assessing it.” Then I’ll get into town and use the library computer. I need to contact someone and do a little bit of online research.
After lunch, I tell Celeste that I’m heading to town for groceries.
“I can cook while I’m here,” I say, “if that helps.”
Her look suggests I might add strychnine to her spaghetti.
I shrug. “Or I can just cook for myself. Just as easy to do it for two, though.”
“I’ll buy the groceries, and you can cook. Give me a list, and I’ll pick them up.”
