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I pull my phone out and Google the brand name etched near the handle: SilverChill UltraSmart+.

It takes thirty seconds to find the product page.

Another fifteen to wish I hadn’t.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “It is recording us.”

Theo stares at the screen over my shoulder. “Real-time audio capture. Continuous voice command activation. AI-led grocery prediction?”

“And get this,” I say, scrolling. “It builds a health profile based on conversation patterns, food choices, and—wait for it—emotional tone.”

“Are you telling me this fridge has a better grasp on our mental health than we do?”

“Not hard,” I mutter.

The lights above us flicker again, a faint crack of thunder rolling in the distance.

“I didn’t want her to die,” the fridge says.

Theo backs up. “That is not a grocery list item.”

But I’m staring at the fridge now like it’s a witness.

Not just to us, but to everything. To conversations whispered when people thought they were alone. To the truths no one thought to hide from a kitchen appliance.

Another flicker. Another line, “Scrub your fucking hands. You touched the body.”

I squeak. Me—trained forensic professional, unflappable in the presence of actual criminals, corpses even—currently ready to lose my shit over a high-end kitchen appliance.

The screen flashes blue. “Initiate post-mortem protocol.”

“What does that even mean?” Theo hisses.

“I don’t know, but I’m not consenting to a protocol with the word post-mortem in it!”

And that’s when the door creaks open.

Giles enters like a bat materializing from mist. I instinctively snap upright and pretend I wasn’t just whisper yelling at the refrigerator.

He takes one look at the two of us—barefoot, snack boxes in hand, mid-crisis—and sighs. Deeply. Wearily. Like this is not, in fact, the first time this exact situation has occurred.

“Not this again,” he grumbles. Then, without fanfare, he strides over to the fridge and slams his fist against the stainless steel door.

The fridge beeps in protest. Then whines.

Then goes completely silent.

Theo and I just stand there, wordless, as Giles turns to us with an annoyed scowl.

“I told Madam Evelyn we didn’t need the upgraded firmware,” he says, picking nonexistent lint from his cuff. “But no, ‘It's cutting edge,’ she said. ‘It tracks allergens,’ she said. ‘It syncs with my iPad.’ Utter nonsense.”

Theo coughs into his fist. “So, uh. That’s... normal?”

“No,” Giles says flatly. “Madam Tillie sometimes forgets to turn off the function that suggests recipes based on what you’re talking about. We’ve deduced that information overload occurs when she leaves it on while listening to true crime podcasts.” He pauses, looks at us seriously, as if willing us to believe that load of bullshit. “It sometimes blurts out completely out of context things it’s picked up over time. We have been… unable to erase the memory.”

He looks down at the mess we’ve made; half a cracker on the floor, a paper towel twisted into a knot, a granola bar unwrapped and abandoned mid-freakout.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he adds. “Guests do not serve themselves.”