I drove home, the anger fueling every deliberate step I took. I walked back into the den and sat down at my heavy oak desk. I knew they were both likely getting alerts that motion was detected. I knew they were watching.

I pulled my leather-bound journal toward me. I picked up my favorite fountain pen. I didn’t look down at the baseboard where the camera was hiding. I kept my face entirely neutral, staring straight ahead, knowing perfectly well the angle captured the pages of the book.

In large, clear, unmistakable letters, I wrote one single sentence across the blank page:

I know about Arthur, I know about the money, and the police are on their way to both of your houses right now.

I let the pen drop. For the first time since finding the camera, I looked down, locking my eyes directly onto the tiny, hidden lens in the shadows. I smiled—a cold, dead, terrifying smile. Then, I reached down and ripped the cord cleanly out of the wall.

They had about ten minutes to panic before I actually made the call. And in those ten minutes, I poured myself a very large glass of wine, sat on the porch, and waited for my husband to come rushing home to the nightmare he had built for himself.