with infrared night vision, motion-activation, and a secure cloud-streaming link that sent encrypted feeds directly to an app on my phone.
When I got home, I stood in Emma’s bedroom on a wooden kitchen chair, holding the little black device between my trembling fingertips. I looked up at the high corner of the room, right where the crown molding met the ceiling, half-hidden behind a decorative macramé plant hanger holding a fake trailing pothos. No one—not an adult, let alone a seven-year-old child—would ever think to look there.
I clicked it into place, synchronized the app, and wiped my sweaty palms against my jeans.
For the next three days, I lived in a state of chronic, agonizing hyper-vigilance. Every time Evan smiled at dinner, every time he kissed the top of Emma’s head as she ate her oatmeal, my skin crawled with a physical revulsion I had
