“Gene, what is that?” Darlene’s voice had gone high and thin.
“It’s a camera,” Dad said. “A nanny cam. I put it in Lucy’s old bear in October.”
He sat back down in his recliner and took out his phone.
“For eight months,” he said, “money has been going missing from this house. Forty dollars from my wallet. A hundred from the coffee can in the kitchen. My emergency cash from the gun safe. Six thousand four hundred dollars, total. I wrote it all down.”
He paused.
“And my pain pills. From my back surgery. A whole bottle, gone, in July. Then another one in September.”
Nobody in the room was breathing.
“I told myself I was getting forgetful,” Dad said. “I’m seventy-four. Then I stopped telling myself that. So I bought a camera and put it in the bear and set it on the shelf where it could see the hallway, the bedroom door, and the basement stairs.”
He turned his phone around and held it out so I could see.
The video was time-stamped 6:42 p.m. That evening. While we were all in the kitchen carving the ham.
Troy came up the basement stairs. He looked toward the kitchen. Then he went straight into Dad and Darlene’s bedroom.
Twenty seconds later, he came out stuffing a fold of cash into the front pocket of his hoodie.
And then Darlene walked down the hall. She stopped. She saw him. She saw the money.
And she put her finger to her lips.
Shh.
She patted her son on the arm and went back to the kitchen.
Twelve minutes later, she came out of the bedroom holding her empty purse and pointed at my daughter.
I don’t think I have ever been as angry as I was in that moment. I couldn’t speak.
Dad could.
“You knew,” he said to his wife. “You watched your son take that money. And then you looked at my granddaughter, who has never done one wrong thing in her whole life, and you decided she’d take the fall for him. On Christmas Eve. In front of her mother.”
Darlene started to cry. “Gene, you don’t understand, Troy’s sick, he needs help, if they knew about the pills, they’d…”
“I do understand,” Dad said. “I’ve got eight months of video, Darlene. I know about the pills. I know about the money. And I know about the three times you went down to the basement right after things went missing and came back up and told me I must have misplaced them.”
Troy hadn’t moved. He was standing by the basement door with his hands in his hoodie, and for the first time all night, he looked like what he was. A thirty-four-year-old man who was very sick and very ashamed.
Dad turned to him. His voice got softer.
“Troy. Empty your pocket, son.”
Troy pulled out the cash. He set it on the coffee table, right next to Paige’s library books. Two thousand dollars.
Then he sat down on the stairs and put his face in his hands.
Dad didn’t call the police that night. He said Christmas Eve was for family, even this one. But he made two phone calls the next morning.
The first was to a treatment center two hours north. Dad paid the intake deposit himself. Troy went the day after Christmas. He’s been there four months now. He’s clean.
The second call was to a divorce attorney.
“I could forgive the money,” Dad told me later, sitting at my kitchen table. “I could even forgive the pills. Addiction makes people do things. But she looked at Paige and chose to destroy her to protect him. Twenty-four hours before Christmas. I can’t be married to someone who’d do that to my grandbaby. I’m too old to pretend.”
Darlene moved out in February.
Paige got a letter in March. From Troy, at the treatment center. Three pages, handwritten.
He said he was sorry. He said he’d stolen from the only man who’d ever treated him like a son. He said he’d stood there and let a sixteen-year-old cry over something he did, and that the look on her face was the first thing he saw every morning when he woke up, and it was the reason he hadn’t left treatment.
Paige read it three times. Then she wrote back. I don’t know what she said. She says that’s between her and Troy.
Dad sold the big house in April and bought a little two-bedroom place ten minutes from us. He comes to dinner on Sundays. He’s teaching Paige to build a bookshelf.
And the teddy bear?
Dad took the camera out of it. Then he gave the bear back to Paige.
“He’s retired now,” Dad told her. “Like me. He did his job.”
It sits on her nightstand. Paige calls him the Detective.