My brother was a simple, honest electrician. The moment he heard I was renovating my new place, he showed up with his toolbox—no questions asked.
"Contractors cut corners," he said. "I'll do it right."
For two weeks straight, Alfred Pruitt worked himself to the bone. By the end, he'd lost weight, and his hands were covered in cuts and calluses.
Mom and Dad were moved to tears.
"Darlene Pruitt, your brother gave up weeks of paid work just to save you a few thousand dollars in labor costs," Mom said, dabbing at her eyes. "Don't you ever forget what he's done for you."
Alfred just smiled—that bashful, simple smile of his—and pressed the keys into my palm. "I'm not good for much, sis. But at least I can do this. Sleep easy knowing your big brother built this place with his own two hands."
I took the keys.
Then I walked to the corner, grabbed the sledgehammer I'd hidden behind the door, and swung it straight into the freshly finished TV wall.
CRASH.
"DARLENE, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!" Mom shrieked, lunging toward me. "Do you have any idea how hard your brother worked?! Are you possessed? Did you leave your conscience in a ditch somewhere?!"
Aunt Diana Lambert's voice cut through right after: "Ungrateful little wretch! A brother like that is one in a million, and this is how you repay him? You think you're too good for his help?!"
Alfred rushed forward, grabbing for the hammer. "Sis—sis, stop! If you don't like it, we'll redo it. Just don't—please, don't smash it—"
I shoved him aside.
My arm plunged into the jagged hole I'd made, fingers closing around something cold and plastic. I yanked.
A tangle of black wires came free, trailing from the shattered wall like exposed veins. At the end of each one: a tiny lens, still blinking with faint light.
Pinhole cameras.
The living room went dead silent.
1.
"What's this?" I held the bundle up, my voice flat. "Planning to spy on me? Or were you going to livestream it?"
Alfred's face spasmed. "That's—that's just security wiring—"
"Security wiring."
"Sis! How can you even think that about me?!" His voice cracked, and he spun toward the relatives, eyes reddening on cue. "This complex is brand new—there's construction everywhere, sketchy workers coming and going at all hours! You saw the news last month, didn't you? That girl who lived alone, followed home, attacked—"
His breath hitched.
"I couldn't sleep, sis. I kept thinking about you here by yourself. So I figured a few cameras would help you stay safe. That's all this is—a security system! How could you call it spying?!"
He raised his hand—the one covered in rough, cracked skin—and pressed it to his chest.
"If I had one bad intention toward you—just one—may I walk out this door and get hit by a truck. May lightning strike me dead where I stand!"
Mom's horrified expression melted into something softer. Sympathy. She turned on me.
"Darlene. Did you hear him? Did you hear what your brother just said?!"
"What kind of person thinks like this? What kind of sister accuses her own brother of—" She couldn't even finish. "Your heart is rotten."
I dropped the wires at Alfred's feet.
"Security system?" I said. "Is that what you're calling it?"
I stepped closer.
"Tell me—does a security system need pinhole cameras? Does it need lenses hidden inside the decorative pattern of a TV wall?"
My voice dropped.
"Does it need to point directly at my couch? At my bed?"
Alfred's face flushed crimson. "I don't know anything about high-tech stuff, okay?! I went to the electronics plaza, and the guy there said these models were better because they're harder for burglars to spot and disable!"
He tugged at his sleeve, revealing a fresh gash still seeping blood.
"I tore my hand open on rebar burying those wires! You think I'd go through all that just to hurt you?!"
Aunt Diana spotted the wound and erupted.
"Oh, for heaven's sake—look at that! Darlene, did all those years of education teach you nothing?!"
She jabbed a finger at me.
"Your brother is a simple man! He doesn't understand your paranoid, twisted way of thinking. He's your brother—your own flesh and blood! How dare you accuse him of filming you, of—of livestreaming?!" She spat the word like it was filthy. "You've been poisoned by the garbage you read online. Rotten. That's what you are. Rotten on the inside!"
Dad stormed over, wrenched the sledgehammer from my grip, and hurled it to the floor with a deafening clang.
"ENOUGH."
His voice shook the room.
"Haven't you humiliated this family enough?! Your brother worked for two weeks—wouldn't take a single cent from you—and this is what he gets?! A sledgehammer through his work?!"
