Chapter 5 - The Gathering Storm
Sophie was discharged from the hospital three days later. We didn't go back to the suburban mansion. Instead, Marcus rented a secure, gated apartment for us on the other side of the city. For the first time in five years, I didn't have to cook a massive meal, I didn't have to iron Evan's shirts, and I didn't have to listen to Margaret’s passive-aggressive remarks about my background.
But the peace was short-lived. A week later, I was served with divorce papers, along with an emergency petition for temporary full custody of Sophie, filed by Arthur Vance on behalf of Evan. The petition painted a horrific picture of me: it claimed I was suffering from severe postpartum depression, that I was prone to hallucinations, and that I had neglected Sophie's health, forcing Evan to intervene physically to try to calm me down.
"They're painting you as an unfit mother," Marcus explained as we sat in his temporary office space. "They’ve even gotten affidavits from three members of Margaret’s church who claim they saw you looking 'unhinged' on the driveway."
"They're lying! They didn't even see what happened inside!" I cried out, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Of course they're lying. But judges look at evidence. We need that smart home footage, Natalie. The tech company is stalling, claiming they need a federal subpoena because the account is solely in Evan’s name, even though it's the marital residence."
"Is there any other way?"
I thought back to the kitchen island. Every morning, I used an old iPad that was mounted to the wall to view recipes and manage the grocery list. It was connected to the same home network, and Evan had logged into his personal Apple ID on it years ago to share the family calendar.
"Marcus," I said, a spark of hope igniting. "The iPad in the kitchen. When I left, I didn't grab it, but it syncs to my personal iCloud for photos because I set it up. If the security system sent alerts or clips to the shared family app, it might be backed up on my old phone storage."
Marcus leaned forward. "Check your cloud storage right now."
I opened my laptop, logged into my dusty, unused cloud account from before the marriage, and navigated to the archived app data. There, buried under years of automated notifications, was a folder labeled SmartHome_Backups. Because Evan had never updated the security permissions after upgrading the system, the high-definition video of the hallway from the night of the incident had automatically mirrored to the linked backup drive.
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I clicked play. The video was crystal clear. It showed Sophie shaking, Margaret blocking the door, Evan demanding I go back to the kitchen, and then—the sickening sound of his hand striking my face. The video didn't lie. It captured Margaret’s indifferent expression and Evan’s cold, unrepentant words: "You made me do that."
"We have them," Marcus whispered, his eyes gleaming. "We have them completely."
