Chapter 2

"Who were you texting last night?"

Brandon blocked the bedroom door, shoving his phone screen in my face.

It was a screenshot. A motion-trigger capture from the living room camera. The timestamp read 1:03 AM.

In the picture, I was curled up on the sofa, the blue light from my phone reflecting on half of my face.

"My mom forwarded this to me at 3 AM," Brandon sneered. "Why do you have to stress her out like this? She didn't sleep a wink last night because of you."

"I was messaging a lawyer," I said quietly.

"A lawyer?" He let out a harsh laugh through his nose. "You're a stay-at-home mom. What do you need a lawyer for? Do you even have the money to pay one?"

"Divorce doesn't cost as much as you think."

His face froze. It wasn't anger; it was a look of pure, offended shock. It was as if the mop in the corner had suddenly opened its mouth and announced it was on strike.

The blue light on the smart speaker flashed.

Eleanor's voice echoed through the speaker in the living room, crystal clear.

"Brandon, did you check her phone yet? I'm telling you, decent women don't text men in the middle of the night. Are you going to handle her, or am I?"

Brandon looked at me and held out his hand.

"Give me your phone."

"No."

"Who bought that phone, Chloe? Whose name is on the family plan?"

He said those words so smoothly, like he had rehearsed them a thousand times. The phone was a gift from Eleanor, and the line was registered under her name.

My contacts, my call logs, my apple pay receipts—every single detail was synced to that woman's screen two states away.

I handed the phone over.

Not because I was afraid of him, but because there was nothing left on it. I had already memorized Mr. Vance’s number.

He spent twenty minutes digging through it. He scrolled through my Snapchat chats, went through my call history, searched my browser logs, and even checked my keyboard pasteboard history.

"Don't ever contact this Vance guy again," Brandon warned.

"Okay."

"You're never leaving this house, Chloe. This apartment belongs to my mom, the car is in my name, and you know exactly how pathetic your bank account is."

The speaker chimed again.

"Brandon, has she made breakfast yet? It's already 8:00 AM. What about Leo? What is Leo eating? Don't give him cereal and milk again. It has no nutrition. Did she follow the recipe I sent yesterday?"

Brandon shot me a look. It meant one thing: *You heard her. Get to work.*

I walked into the kitchen.

I opened the fridge, and the small touchscreen built into the smart fridge lit up. It tracked what ingredients were inside, how much we used, and every single time the door was opened.

Last month, I took out an extra block of butter to make cookies for Leo. Eleanor called that very afternoon. "Why are you eating so much butter? Look at your weight. The smart scale showed you gained another pound and a half this morning."

Even the bathroom scale was connected to her network.

I cracked an egg into a bowl and picked up the salt shaker. I shook in two pinches.

I hesitated, then added a third.

Less than five minutes later, the speaker crackled.

"Three pinches of salt? You did that last time, too. I've been keeping track. Two is more than enough. Too much sodium is bad for your kidneys."

She could see me seasoning the food.

There was a camera hidden in the kitchen. From cooking to cutting vegetables to washing dishes, every second I spent standing at the sink was under her watchful eye.

If I searched for job openings on Google, she’d call five minutes later to ask if I thought Brandon didn't make enough money. If I drank too much water at night and went to the bathroom frequently, she’d text me to go get my gut health checked.

This $12,000 smart system wasn't a gift. It was a digital prison.

After breakfast, Brandon got ready to leave. Before closing the door, he threw over his shoulder, "I have a business dinner tonight, don't wait up. Watch Leo. My mom wants to FaceTime him later to check if he's memorized his preschool vocabulary."

The door clicked shut. The living room was dead silent, save for the faint blue light of the smart speaker, staring at me like an unblinking eye.

I walked into the bathroom and locked the door.

I turned the sink faucet on to full blast.

From behind the lid of the toilet tank, I fished out a cheap, old burner phone.

I bought it for $50 on eBay. I registered the SIM card under a fake name using a pre-paid plan, paying cash.

It wasn't connected to the home Wi-Fi, and it didn't have any smart apps installed.

I opened Snapchat.

There was a new message from David Vance:

"Mrs. Miller, I've reviewed your situation. Installing surveillance equipment without your consent, syncing your personal communications, and tracking your spending constitutes a severe invasion of privacy. It borders on unlawful surveillance. However, we need a solid paper trail to file. From now on, you have one job—document everything. The more detail, the better."

I typed back: "She put a camera in the kitchen. She knows exactly how many pinches of salt I put in my food."

The reply came in less than thirty seconds.

"The more cameras she installs, the more pieces of evidence we have for court."

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