I planted the camera last night. It’s a pinhole lens, smaller than a pencil eraser, wedged into the air intake vent above Jillian’s bedroom door before she got home and wired to a battery pack that will last months. It took all of two minutes to install, and she’s none the wiser. She’s got bigger things on her mind than a tiny little light in her vent that wasn’t there before.
The feed loads in high-definition color, bright and sharp. Her bedroom is neat and tasteful. There’s a queen bed with a white duvet and too many pillows, all thoughtfully arranged. The nightstand holds a lamp, a half-full glass of water, and a stack of books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages. A framed print hangs above the headboard—Matisse, one of the cutouts, blue shapes on white. Chic. The whole room looks
