And the knot in my stomach refused to loosen.

I told myself I was overreacting.

Vivian’s grades stayed high. She behaved like any other teenager. Logically, I had no reason to worry—but the feeling wouldn’t leave.

Mike always turns on the dashcam when he drives. Insurance reasons, he said.

One night, after everyone went to bed, I slipped outside and removed the memory card.

My hands trembled the entire time.

I sat alone at the kitchen table with my laptop, the house silent around me.

I told myself I was paranoid.

Then the footage started.

At first, it looked normal—streetlights sliding across the windshield, an empty road, Mike adjusting the steering wheel.

Vivian appeared only in fragments: a reflection of her hoodie, the outline of her shoulder under brighter lights.

They never went near the gas station.

The car turned onto a side street I recognized but couldn’t immediately place—old brick buildings, closed shops.

Mike parked.

The camera kept recording as he stepped out, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door just out of frame. A shadow moved, then Vivian stepped into view with her back to the camera.