Even beneath the mask, I recognized the shape of her eyes.
Dr. Margaret Ellis.
My heart pounded.
The detective resumed the footage.
The woman left.
My father returned.
Then Charles Rowan began the procedure.
Several minutes later, the medical team suddenly rushed around my bed.
My father looked horrified.
He shoved Rowan away from the equipment.
Then the recording ended.
I sat frozen.
For twenty years, I'd imagined my blindness beginning when I fell from a playground swing.
But the screen had just shown me the moment another injury destroyed what vision remained.
My father had been there.
Nigel's father had been there.
And Dr. Ellis had been there.
Then Detective Collins spoke.
"Sarah, there's another recording."
I turned toward him.
"What recording?"
"From the corridor outside the treatment room."
He played it.
The timestamp was earlier.
10:57 p.m.
I watched a young boy standing beside a vending machine.
He wore a red jacket.
