Ben stared at the screen. The file metadata read:

The closet door handle was cold. Ben reached for it.

He unwrapped the towel.

The footage was shaky, as if shot by a child holding a Super 8 camera. It showed a living room—not a soundstage. A cramped living room in what looked like the late 1970s: wood-paneled walls, a heavy Zenith television, a half-empty glass of milk on a coaster. A man in a brown corduroy jacket stood with his back to the camera, holding something wrapped in a red towel.