Lydia’s gut told her something was wrong, but her husband insisted she was overreacting. Then the phone rang. Her daughter’s whisper sent a chill down her spine—“Mom, I just saw a camera in the room.” In that moment, Lydia knew—her instincts had been right all along.

The clock on the kitchen wall seemed to tick louder than usual, each second stretching longer than it should.

Lydia sat stiffly at the table, arms folded tightly across her chest, her foot tapping an anxious rhythm against the cool, tiled floor.

The glow of the oven cast flickering shadows along the walls, the scent of roasted chicken filling the air, but she had no appetite.

Across the kitchen, Mark stood at the counter, humming a tune under his breath as he chopped vegetables.

Lydia exhaled sharply. “I can’t do this,” she muttered, her voice thick with tension.

She pushed back from the table, standing so quickly that the chair scraped against the tile.

“I’m going to pick her up.”

Mark didn’t even pause his slicing. “Lyd, come on.” His tone was light, as if she were being ridiculous. “It’s just a sleepover.”

She turned to face him fully, her eyes dark with worry. “Her first sleepover. At Kara’s house.”