The pressure was mounting from every corner of the family, but the truth was our only shield.
“We do not drop anything,” I said.
“Then we go to the editing room,” Julian said, checking his watch. “The technician is waiting.”
The basement studio on Atlantic Avenue smelled of warm electronics and stale coffee. A young technician named Leo sat in front of three large monitors, his fingers moving across a back-lit keyboard.
“We are putting a digital watermark on every frame,” I said, leaning over his shoulder. “No one can edit this version without breaking the code.”
The screen showed our living room on New Year’s Eve. On the monitor, Eleanor was packing the white wicker bassinet with cans of infant formula while Mark carried our winter blankets out to his car.
“Look at his hands,” Leo said, zooming in on Mark’s fingers. “He is holding a second set of keys.”
