We spent the day watching the monitors. It was a horror show in high definition.

We watched Trevor ransack our home office, photographing our bank statements showing $340,000 in savings. We watched him call a lawyer, discussing how quickly he could liquidate our assets once he had guardianship.

“Yeah, the house is worth $485,000,” Trevor said, his voice crystal clear through the hidden microphones. “They’re old, but they’re healthy. I can’t wait fifteen years for them to die. Guardianship is faster.”

My blood ran cold. He wasn’t just greedy; he was predatory.

We watched Kesha in our bedroom, trying on my pearl necklace before stuffing it into her purse. We watched Trevor take William’s vintage watch collection.

“They’re robbing us,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face again. “Our own son is robbing us blind.”

“I know, baby,” William said, his hand resting on my knee. “But look at the red light on the console. We’re recording everything. Every theft. Every word. Every lie.”