In the living room, the rug was crooked.
One of my mother’s slippers lay beneath a chair.
The other was near the hallway.
A small dark stain marked the edge of the hardwood.
Vega photographed everything.
“Cameras?”
I pointed toward the doorbell unit outside.
“Doorbell camera. Maybe the back porch too.”
“Interior?”
“I don’t think so.”
Then I remembered Christmas.
My mother had complained about packages disappearing.
Ryan himself had given her a small Wi-Fi camera.
“Actually… yes.”
Vega looked at me.
“Where?”
“Kitchen. Maybe.”
We found it tucked on top of a cabinet beside a ceramic rooster.
Its tiny black lens faced the room.
Ryan had installed it.
Ryan had connected it.
Ryan had explained to my mother how cloud storage worked.
And somehow, in the arrogance of a man who had spent years believing he was the smartest person in every room, he had forgotten the device he gave her could watch him too.
