At 1 a.m., my neighbor whispered, “Don’t open the door”—then my security app flashed no connection, the porch light refused to turn on, and five minutes of knuckles on my Pine Street door made my whole house shake in a quiet American neighborhood, until the silence hit and I leaned into the peephole to see who was smiling on the other side. My phone was still buzzing in my hand when Mrs. Miller’s voice broke through, sharp with panic.

Outside, the net was already being spread. A small truck from an environmental cleaning company appeared parked on the corner all day. But I knew inside was a technical team glued to screens monitoring every signal from the devices inside my house.

Some unknown people started appearing in the neighborhood naturally. A man walking his German Shepherd every morning. A young woman pushing a baby stroller passing several times in front of my house. A group of workers repairing the roof of an abandoned apartment nearby. My street, before so familiar, suddenly became strange, but I knew they were all undercover police, my invisible protectors.

That night, only Jennifer and I were in the house. Without Matthew’s laughter, the atmosphere became more tense than ever. When she brought me a cup of chamomile tea, I smiled as I received it. The kitchen light reflected in the eyes of that monster disguised as a person, and I knew it also reflected in the invisible eye of the hidden camera.

I raised the cup, pretended to take a sip, feeling the heat on my lips. Then, while she turned to pick things up, I quickly and silently poured the rest of the tea into the fern pot. I knew every drop I threw was not only proof being recorded—it was an act of resistance.

My theater play had truly begun.

During the next two days, I kept playing the role of the sick mother, spending most of the time in the plush armchair, knitting needles in hand. But in reality, all my senses were on alert to the max: my ears attentive to every step, to every phone call of Jennifer. My eyes did not stop observing all her movements from hidden corners, mirrors, and those places where I knew invisible electronic eyes recorded every detail.

Joseph had warned me through a brief call from Rose that we needed a golden opportunity, a period long enough for his team to act without being discovered. I had to create that opportunity. I had to be the bait.

The plan was already drawn in my mind, simple, but it had to be executed perfectly.

That morning, while sitting at the table, I took the local newspaper and pretended to read it over. Then I stopped at a small note. I cleared my throat and read aloud slowly, as if talking to myself.

“Oh, today there is a craft fair at South Park. What pretty things. Too bad with these legs I cannot go anywhere.”

I finished with a melancholic sigh and left the newspaper on the table with a gesture of sadness.

Jennifer, who was cleaning the kitchen, turned upon hearing me. Her eyes shone for an instant with what I intuited was a calculation, but she hid it quickly with a kind smile.

“If you want to go, I can take you. We walk slowly, and if you get tired, we rest. Being locked up at home all the time does not do you good.”

Maybe she thought it was a good occasion to continue playing her role of exemplary daughter-in-law. Or perhaps she also needed an excuse to leave the house.