“Were you trying tricks again?” I asked gently.

“I already told you,” Jasper cut in. “He just slipped. I saw it happen.”

Howard glanced at his dad, then down at his cast.

Something felt wrong. I could feel it in my bones. But I stayed quiet for his sake.

Later that evening, a charge nurse came in to check Howard’s vitals. Calm. Efficient. Observant.

When Jasper reached to adjust Howard’s blanket, Howard flinched.

It was small — almost invisible — but the nurse saw it. So did I.

As she walked out, she brushed past me and pressed something into my hand.

I unfolded it once Jasper looked away.

HE’S LYING. CHECK THE CAMERA AT 3 A.M.

My mouth went dry.

I found her at the nurses’ station.

“What does this mean?” I whispered.

She kept her voice neutral. “Every pediatric room has audio and video monitoring. Go to security at 2:55. Tell them I sent you. Watch Channel 12.”

Then she walked away.

At 2:58 a.m., I stood in the security office staring at a wall of monitors.

The guard pulled up Howard’s room.

He was asleep.

The chair beside his bed — the one Jasper claimed he’d been sitting in — was empty.

At exactly 3:00 a.m., the door opened.

Jasper walked in.

He wasn’t alone.

A woman followed him.

Howard stirred. “Dad?”

Jasper pulled up the chair. “Hey, buddy. We just need to make sure we’re telling the story right.”

My blood ran cold.

“I told everyone I fell,” Howard said.

“Good,” Jasper replied quickly. “Scooter. I was outside watching. That’s what we tell Mom.”

“But I don’t want to lie to Mom.”

My heart cracked.

“We have to,” Jasper said sharply. “She can’t know I wasn’t there.”

Wasn’t there?

“Dad, you just went to the store. And Kelly was there…”

The woman shifted awkwardly.

“Your mom doesn’t know about me yet,” she said gently.

Kelly.

Girlfriend.

Unknown to me.

Howard’s voice trembled. “I tried a trick. Kelly went inside to get her phone. I thought I could do it.”

Jasper cut him off. “We’re keeping it simple. You don’t say I wasn’t there. You don’t mention Kelly. You don’t say you were doing tricks. Stick to the story.”

“Okay,” Howard whispered.

They left the room together.

My son lay there alone — carrying a lie he never should’ve had to carry.

“Do you want me to save the footage?” the guard asked.

“Yes.”

By morning, a social worker had reviewed the recording. An official note was filed: inconsistent parental account, absence during injury, coaching a minor to lie.