Chapter 3: What the Screen Said
My husband's name was Derek.
I want you to remember that, because for a long time I had forgotten it meant anything.
He stood there holding his phone with both hands, the way you hold something you're afraid to drop.
His mother — Lorraine — was still gripping his arm, her fingers white at the knuckles.
"Derek." Her voice dropped to something I hadn't heard before.
Not commanding.
Careful.
"Put the phone down."
He didn't.
"Derek, who sent that?"
He looked up at me.
"How long has Patrice had access to the stream?"
"Three weeks," I said.
"Since the second Friday."
Lorraine let go of his arm.
She turned to face me fully, and I saw her doing the math behind her eyes — counting back, recalculating, trying to find the moment it had all slipped out of her hands.
"You had no way to contact anyone," she said.
"I took your phone.
I took your laptop.
I checked the wipes myself."
"You checked the first pack," I said.
She stared at me.
"Patrice brought two."
The baby shifted inside me.
I pressed one hand to my side and kept my eyes on Lorraine.
I had practiced this moment in the dark for three weeks, lying on that narrow bed, running through every version of how it might go.
I had been afraid in all of them.
I was still afraid now.
But fear and readiness are not the same thing, and I had learned the difference the hard way.
"The second stream has 4,200 viewers," I said.
"Right now.
Tonight."
Lorraine's mouth opened.
Closed.
"They've been watching for three weeks.
They have the feed bag on camera.
They have your voice.
They have Derek's voice.
They have the comments from your stream — the ones where people asked what was wrong with me, and you told them I was mentally unwell and needed to be managed for the sake of the baby."
Derek set his phone face-down on the dresser.
"Olivia—"
"Don't," I said.
"Just let me—"
"I said don't."
He stopped.
Lorraine recovered faster than he did.
That was always how it worked between them.
She crossed the room toward me, slowly, the way you approach something you're not sure is dangerous.
"You don't understand what you've done," she said quietly.
"Those people online — you think they're going to help you?
They'll get bored.
They'll move on.
And when this is over, you'll still be here.
With us.
And the baby will still be ours to raise."
"She's not yours," I said.
"She will be.
Once a family court sees your history — your instability, your episodes, the documentation we have—"
"What documentation?"
She smiled.
Just slightly.
"Did you think the stream was the only thing we were building?"
My stomach dropped.
"We have three months of records," she said.
"Signed by Derek's physician.
Documenting your condition."
"I don't have a condition."
"The paperwork says otherwise."
Derek still hadn't moved.
He was looking at the floor.
That told me everything I needed to know about how much of this he had chosen versus how much he had simply allowed.
His phone lit up again on the dresser.
Same unknown number.
This time, Lorraine saw it too.
"Answer it," I said.
"Olivia, stop—"
"Answer it, Derek.
Or I will tell the 4,200 people watching right now that you won't."
His hand moved to the phone.
He picked it up.
He looked at the screen for a long moment.
Then he answered it — and put it on speaker without being asked.
A woman's voice came through.
Calm.
Professional.
"Mr.
Harlow.
This is Detective Reyes with the county sheriff's department.
We've been monitoring a live broadcast for the past forty-seven minutes.
I'm going to need you to stay where you are."
May you like
Lorraine sat down on the edge of the bed.
It was the first time I had ever seen her sit in that room without choosing to.
