Chapter 4 - RECORDING THE BLACKMAIL
Nora motioned toward the oak kitchen table where my mother’s Thanksgiving pumpkin centerpiece still sat. Her black smartphone rested against the sugar bowl, its camera lens facing us, recording every word and threat. She thought she was capturing my coerced confession to send to our devastated parents, believing they would grasp at any straw to prove their family wasn't entirely broken.
I played along, dropping my shoulders and letting my posture mimic exhaustion. I asked how long I had to think about it, and she smiled, telling me I had "as long as your blood sugar gives you." She flicked the disposal switch halfway just to make it click, reminding me that she possessed absolute power over my pancreas. What she didn't know—what she was too arrogant to check—was that my insulin pump wasn't the only smart device in the room.
