I even hummed—loud enough for her to hear from the other side of the wall. I hoped she would think my attention was elsewhere.
But my ears were open.
She moved a little. No drawers opening. No closet. No hairbrush. Just the soft shuffle of fabric. The wet smack of a cup hitting the mattress. The stillness that clings.
And then… nothing.
I wait a few more seconds before I shift.
Slide the laptop onto my thighs.
Open the feed.
She hasn’t touched the bedroom camera in weeks. She forgets it’s even there—built flush into the base of the bookshelf. Wide angle. Good resolution. Quiet.
I pull it up.
Static.
Not blackout—just noise. Low-grade distortion. Like something’s jamming it.
My jaw clenches.
I cycle through the other feeds.
Hallway—clear.
Kitchen—clear.
Front door—still locked.
But the floor cam, the one aimed just inside the front door—shows something out of place.
The edge of a paper. Barely visible. Not there last night. Not something I dropped.
And the timestamp?
Twelve minutes ago.
No alert.
No door open registered.
I sit still.
Then, I open the local storage logs. The door sensors keep their own timelines. They always log entries, even when the camera doesn’t catch movement.
The front door has no entry listed since 3:14 AM.
But the paper wasn’t there at 6:40.
I check again.
The door didn’t open.
Which means either:
