Chapter 3 - The Stuffed Rabbit
The security company told me BV-Guest had administrator privileges.
Not guest privileges.
Administrator.
That meant whoever controlled it could view cameras, open smart locks, read motion history, and access microphones built into several home devices.
"Who created it?" I asked.
The technician typed for a moment.
"Looks like it was added eleven months ago."
The week Beatriz moved in.
"By which account?"
Another pause.
"Yours."
"Impossible."
"The authorization came from your primary tablet."
My tablet lived in my home office.
Beatriz knew the passcode.
I had given it to her when she needed to print travel documents for me.
A stupid, ordinary decision.
The kind that changes everything later.
"Can she tell I'm checking?"
"Not if we mirror access instead of revoking it."
"Do that."
For the next three hours, I watched my own home from a laptop in the SUV.
I hated every second.
Beatriz moved through the house with calm efficiency.
She answered emails.
She called the caterer for a dinner we were hosting Saturday.
She watered an orchid.
Then Isabella came downstairs.
Beatriz did not raise her voice.
That almost made it worse.
"Garden."
Isabella's face tightened.
"My hands hurt."
"That sounds like complaining."
"I have homework."
Beatriz stepped closer.
"Your father thinks you're becoming lazy."
I gripped the steering wheel.
I had never said that.
Isabella looked down.
"He told you?"
"He tells me everything."
Then Beatriz tapped the pink watch on Isabella's wrist.
"And so does this."
My blood went cold.
The watch did not have an open microphone feature.
At least, not according to the settings I knew.
I called the technician.
He found a third-party parental monitoring application installed under a hidden profile.
It recorded short audio clips whenever certain keywords were detected.
Mom.
Dad.
Beatriz.
Help.
A child had been living inside a house that listened for the word help.
And I had paid for the internet connection.
At 1:40, Beatriz sent Isabella upstairs.
I waited ten minutes.
Then I entered through the detached garage using an old manual key.
The house felt different when I knew it had ears.
I moved quietly to Isabella's room.
The smart speaker was obvious.
So was the watch charger.
But Isabella had said Beatriz knew things even when those devices were off.
I searched without disturbing anything.
Bookshelf.
Desk.
Lamp.
Stuffed animals.
Then I saw the rabbit.
A worn white rabbit Lauren had bought Isabella before she was born.
She slept with it every night.
One eye looked slightly newer than the other.
I turned it over.
A line of stitching along the back had been opened and resewn.
Inside, beneath the stuffing, was a black device smaller than my thumb.
Microphone.
Memory card.
Wireless transmitter.
For a moment I could not move.
Beatriz had put a listening device inside the one object my daughter carried when she was afraid.
I photographed it and put it back exactly as I found it.
Then I heard footsteps.
Beatriz was coming upstairs.
I slipped into the walk-in closet and pulled the door almost closed.
She entered Isabella's room.
A drawer opened.
Then her voice.
"Where did you put it?"
Isabella answered quietly.
"Put what?"
"The note from school."
My heart stopped.
Beatriz's voice became softer.
"You know what happens when you hide things from me."
A long silence.
Then Isabella whispered.
"Please don't lock the door again."
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from stepping out.
Beatriz opened another drawer.
Paper rustled.
"There it is."
She left.
I waited until the hallway was quiet.
Then I found the trash bin in the bathroom.
The note was torn into four pieces.
I put it together on the counter.
It was from Isabella's school counselor.
Mr. Mercer,
I need to speak with you privately about something Isabella shared concerning home.
Please call me directly.
At the bottom, in red ink, someone had written:
May you like
Third attempt.
