Determined to understand, I approached Margaret myself. She sat calmly in the living room, sipping tea.
“I know you’ve been knocking at night,” I said. “We saw the video. I just want to know why.”
Her gaze was sharp and unreadable.
“And what exactly do you think I’m doing?” she murmured before walking away.
That evening, the footage revealed more. Margaret pulled a small silver key from her pocket and pressed it to the lock of our bedroom door — not turning it, just holding it there — then left.
The next morning, I searched Liam’s nightstand and found a worn notebook. One page read:
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