Helen revealed that she had placed two handwritten warning notes inside my mailbox. I had never received them. She had emailed me three times, but her messages had gone directly into my spam folder. Then, she had knocked on my front door while I was away at work—coincidentally when my BrightCurrent technician happened to be inside updating the inverter software. He told her that I did not want to speak with her.
I stared at the officer. I had never given any technician permission to say that on my behalf.
June asked for the name of the technician who maintained the system.
“Travis Morrow,” Helen said.
Officer Alvarez’s expression instantly darkened. Three homes in a neighboring county had recently reported suspicious, unverified electronic devices hidden inside BrightCurrent installations. The company had brushed off the complaints, claiming the boxes were merely temperature sensors to monitor roof efficiency. Yet, no equipment had ever remained in place long enough for independent investigators to examine it; each device mysteriously disappeared before authorities arrived.
I looked up at Helen, a cold realization beginning to dawn. “What made you so sure it was a camera?”
Her answer came in a quiet, chilling whisper. “Naomi saw herself.”
Two weeks earlier, Naomi had received an anonymous link on her personal phone. When opened, it directed her to a private livestream showing her own bedroom window from above.
While the feed did not contain anything explicit or indecent, its implications were horrifying. It showed precisely when she woke up in the morning, when she left for school, and when Helen was alone in the house. Right beside the video feed was a detailed, chilling schedule listing their daily personal routines. Beneath the schedule, someone had even written out the exact security code to Helen’s home alarm system.
Helen had taken screenshots of the page before the link vanished into thin air.