The next morning, I sat with Alice at the kitchen table before school.
I waited until she was calm and quiet, then said carefully, “Sweetheart, if Tommy ever talks about what he did to the house… if he says anything again about flooding it, would you mind recording it? Just audio or video, nothing fancy. Don’t make a big deal out of it, and only if you feel safe doing it.”
She paused, then nodded. “Okay.”
Two days later, she came home from school, eyes wide.
“Mom… I got it.”
When I pressed play, Tommy’s voice came through, loud and smug:
“Yeah, I flooded their whole living room. I stuffed Play-Doh in the toilet and pushed the button so it kept flushing. My mom said it’d be funny. She said Aunt Ashley acts like she’s better than everyone. She told me to mess it up a little.”
I listened to it three times, each time feeling more disgusted than the last.
That night, I sat down at the dining table, turned on the lamp, and wrote a short, calm, clear note.
Nora,
