By morning, I’d replayed the footage so many times I questioned my own memory.

I made breakfast. Packed lunches. Functioned.

But inside, I was unraveling.

The dashcam hadn’t given me answers—it had made everything worse.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I needed the truth.

The next evening, after dinner, I called Vivian over while Mike sat in the living room.

“Vivian, can you come sit with us for a minute?”

She glanced nervously at Mike before sitting on the edge of the couch.

“I took the memory card from your dashcam, Mike. I watched the footage from your last ‘ice cream run.'”

Mike blinked.

“You want to tell me where you’re taking my daughter, and why you’ve kept it a secret?” I asked.

He flinched—but Vivian spoke first.

“It’s not his fault. I made him keep it secret because I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand?”

Silence.

“One of you needs to start talking.”

I looked between them, feeling my pulse race.

“Mike, where have you been taking her?”

He sighed and looked at Vivian. “Sorry, Viv, but we can’t keep this to ourselves any longer.”

Vivian shook her head. “Please, don’t…”

Mike turned to me. “It’s a dance studio. Vivian has been taking late classes there since the summer.”

The words stunned me.

“Dance?” I repeated.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Vivian swallowed. “Because you would’ve said no.”

“What? Why would you think that?”