I stood in the doorway, a dark blot on their perfect pastel canvas. The black dress. The baby strapped to my chest.
“Caroline?”
It was Jennifer. Her voice wasn’t the confident purr of her Instagram stories. It was a squeak. Her smile faltered, the corners twitching like a glitching video.
The color drained from her face so fast it was like watching a lightbulb blow out.
I stepped into the room. The click of my heels on the marble was deafening.
“Caroline, what are you doing here?” Michael asked, lowering his glass. He looked confused, not angry. “Is that… a baby?”
“The babysitter has arrived,” I announced. My voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm. It projected to the back of the room without me raising it.
A ripple of whispers broke out. Babysitter? Whose baby? Why is she here?
“Surely this is a joke,” I heard a voice sniff. It was Elizabeth, Michael’s mother. She was clutching her pearls, staring at me with disdain. “Caroline has always had a flair for the dramatic, hasn’t she? Trying to ruin Jennifer’s big day.”
“A joke?” I stopped ten feet from the head table. “You think this is a joke, Elizabeth?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my smartphone. I didn’t look at Jennifer. I looked at the A/V technician standing to the side of the stage.
“Bluetooth is open, I assume?” I asked him.
He nodded, too stunned to stop me.
I tapped the screen.
Behind the head table, a massive projection screen had been set up to show a montage of Jennifer and Michael’s romantic vacations.
The image flickered. The beach photo vanished.
In its place, grainy but high-definition black-and-white footage appeared.
The room gasped.
It was the footage from my doorbell camera. The timestamp was clearly visible: Yesterday, 10:14 PM.
On the massive screen, Jennifer—unmistakable in her coat—struggled with the basket. She looked around furtively. She dumped the basket on the floor. She ran.
“What is this?” Michael whispered. He turned to look at the screen, then back at his wife. “Jenny?”
I swiped left on my phone.
