Delphine. My sister. The woman leaning over my shoulder, gasping, “Are they seriously moving in?” as if she were just as shocked as I was. She was four hours away from the crime she had arranged. She knew my address because I trusted her with it. She knew the keypad code because I had texted it to her so she could let the flooring installer inside while I was away.

The police were still on the phone when I noticed something on Delphine’s kitchen counter. Beside the fruit bowl sat a moving-company invoice. Same yellow truck. Her name was on the booking line. I didn’t accuse her. I simply asked, quietly, why she had a receipt for a moving truck at my house. She stared at me, suddenly unable to explain. She had never expected the cameras to catch everything. Click continue reading below