The blinking started small, a tiny twitch in the corner of my wife’s eye. We were two nights into a long weekend, half-asleep on an unfamiliar mattress, when Pilar sat up and whispered, “Why is the smoke detector flashing?”
I dragged over a chair, unscrewed the dome, and froze. A tiny lens stared back at me.
We didn’t argue. We packed like people fleeing a fire—chargers yanked, toiletries tossed, clothes shoved together in a tote. Ten minutes later, we were in the car, clutching the dome in a grocery bag, drinking warm Cokes because our hands needed something to do.
I posted a review: “Hidden camera in the bedroom. Unsafe.”
Ten minutes later, a reply pinged:“You fool, this is a felony, and you’ve just tampered with an active police sting.”
I laughed at first. Pilar read it three times. “FBI?” she asked. We’re not FBI people. I teach middle school science. She’s a doula. The closest we get to law enforcement is separating eighth graders arguing over feeding a bearded dragon.
Within an hour, my account was suspended. A case manager named Rochelle called. Calm voice, vague sentences: “The device you removed was part of an authorized surveillance operation in partnership with local authorities. We’ve forwarded your contact to a federal liaison.”
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