I didn’t care. I needed to see it. I needed to understand the mechanics of the trap my own family had set for me.
Thirty minutes later, I stood in the doorway of my own rented home. The air inside was heavy, smelling of stale grease and the lingering, metallic tang of blood from the master bedroom. The living room was exactly as I had left it hours ago—a monument to Linda and Ashley’s apathy.
The police officer stood by the front door, letting me walk down the narrow hallway alone. My feet felt heavy, like blocks of concrete, as I pushed open the door to the nursery.
We hadn’t even used the nursery yet; Noah was supposed to sleep in a bassinet beside our bed for the first few months. The nursery was supposed to be a place of hope. It had pale green walls, a white crib I had spent three weekends assembling, and a rocking chair where Emily planned to feed him.
I walked over to the crib, tears blinding my vision. I reached out to touch the soft, unblemished mattress.
My hand hit something hard beneath the fitted sheet.
Frowning, I wiped my eyes and pulled back the fabric. Tucked flat against the wooden slats of the crib, hidden entirely from view unless the mattress was lifted, was a small, black electronic device with a blinking blue light.
A hidden camera.
But it wasn’t a standard baby monitor. It was a high-end, commercial-grade surveillance piece, the kind that streams live audio and video directly to a remote server.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I pulled the device out. On the back, written in silver sharpie, was a serial number and a tiny set of initials: A.M. Ashley Miller.
They weren’t just neglecting my family. They were watching them. They were recording them.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The harsh vibration made me jump, nearly dropping the camera. I pulled it out, expecting a call from the hospital updating me on Emily’s condition or Noah’s fever.
