"This is the window," Rowan murmured. "She tried to wipe the footage starting exactly ten minutes after this."
Ethan nodded once. "I knew she acted fast, but not that fast."
"When people panic," Rowan replied quietly, "speed becomes a confession."
Rowan keyed in a command on the console and began isolating fragments. Some were damaged beyond recognition, but others contained enough metadata to reconstruct the sequence. The system whirred as it processed his request.
Ethan walked the perimeter of the room, studying every detail, noting each indicator on the machines, every access alert, every trail she'd left behind. The security room smelled faintly of dust, warm plastic, and desperation—the desperation of someone who thought wiping a camera feed could erase consequences.
"Look at this," Rowan called.
Ethan returned to the console. A partially restored clip played, frames stuttering, broken by static, but the essentials were there: Vivian in the hallway, speaking sharply to someone off-frame, then Mara stepping into view, hesitant and visibly distressed.
Ethan's jaw tightened. He didn't look away.
The footage flickered again, but Rowan froze it just before the door closed behind Vivian and Mara.
"Even if the inside footage is corrupted," Rowan said, "this alone proves she took her in: without a parent, without consent."
"And she lied about it," Ethan added, voice hard.
"That's the part that matters most in court," Rowan said. "Intent and deception."
Ethan's hand curled into a fist at his side, but slowly relaxed. He wasn't here to explode. He was here to observe, to calculate, to allow the truth to work the way truth always did: quietly at first, then suddenly devastating.
Rowan glanced at him. "You all right?"
"I'm fine," Ethan replied. "I'm just thinking."