The visit started the usual way. She complimented the kids loudly, criticized my curtains softly, and asked Aaron why he looked tired in a tone that implied the answer was me.
I made coffee. I set out the muffins. I acted normal.
Then I waited.
The first thing I noticed was how careful she was when people were watching.
If I were in the room, she would dab at crumbs. If Aaron passed by, she carried her plate to the sink. If the kids sat near her, she used that sweet grandma voice like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
But the minute she thought she was alone, it was like seeing a costume drop.
That night, after she left, I sat with Aaron on the couch and pulled up the footage.
At first, there was nothing.
Then there was everything.
In one clip, Diane looked around the kitchen to make sure no one was there, dipped two fingers into a smear of jam on a plate, and wiped them slowly across my clean counter.
Aaron actually said, “What the hell?”
In another clip, she stood by the mudroom door after going outside to “get something from the car.” She looked down at her shoes, looked at the clean floor, and then deliberately walked back and forth across the entryway, pressing dirt into the tile before calling out, “Oops! I should’ve taken these off.”
In the living room clip, she unwrapped a candy, looked straight toward the hallway, and tucked the wrapper between the couch cushion and the armrest. Not dropped. Tucked. Like a raccoon hiding stolen jewelry.
Then came the one that made my blood run cold.
I had mopped the kitchen that morning. The video showed Diane walking in alone, seeing the still-damp shine on the floor, and smiling.
Not a huge smile. Not a laugh. Just a small, private, satisfied little smile.
Then she opened the back door, stepped onto the patio, rubbed the bottoms of her shoes in the flower bed, and came back in.
She tracked a crooked line of mud across the floor I had just cleaned.
Aaron covered his mouth with his hand.
I just stared.
