“These aren’t security cameras, Mrs. Turner,” the electrician said.

He was standing on top of our laminate bathroom counter, holding a tiny black lens no bigger than a shirt button.

It had been glued behind the silver backing of our vanity mirror, right where a small scratch in the glass let the lens see through.

I just stood there staring at him because my brain genuinely stopped working for a second.

We had bought this small brick ranch house out near Dayton, Ohio, three weeks ago for $310,000.

It was supposed to be our quiet place.

My husband, Keith, had just retired from thirty years with the county road commission.

I spent my life typing up billing charts at a local dental clinic, saving every dollar we could.

This house was our reward.

But instead of unpacking our kitchen boxes, Greg the electrician was pulling a thin black wire out from the drywall.

“There are more,” he muttered.

He looked sick to his stomach. He wouldn’t look me in the eye.

That was the first moment I felt a cold slide into my chest.

I need to explain how we got here.

The previous owner, a quiet bachelor named Mr. Henderson, had left the property in an incredible hurry.

We didn’t think much of it at the time.

We figured he just wanted to get down to Florida before the Ohio winter set in.

He left a few odd things behind, like a lawnmower in the shed and a small blue ceramic salt shaker on the kitchen counter shaped like an owl.

I don’t know why I kept that salt shaker there, but it looked harmless, so I left it near the stove.

Our neighbor, Artie, had been the very first person to welcome us to the block.

Artie was a retired tool-and-die maker who lived in a perfectly painted yellow house next door.

He was seventy-two, always wearing a faded blue windbreaker, and he seemed like the sweetest soul.

On the afternoon we moved our boxes in, he walked across the grass holding a paper plate of chocolate chip cookies wrapped in plastic wrap.

“You folks need any help with the heavy stuff?” he asked, smiling warmly.

Keith took the cookies, and we sat on our packing crates that night eating them.

I remember telling Keith how lucky we were to have a neighbor like Artie.