The Dead Zone

Mark walked into the bedroom. He was still wearing his suit, though he'd loosened the tie. It hung around his neck like a noose he hadn't quite committed to yet.

He looked tired. Or maybe just annoyed.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, the phone in my hand. The screen was black, but the image of the messy kitchen was burned into my retinas. The angle. The impossible angle.

"Mark," I said.

He stopped. He looked at me, then at the phone. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Not again, Becca. It's late."

"Look," I said, holding out the phone.

He didn't take it. He just glanced at the screen.

"Diane posted it," I said. "Three hours ago."

"So? She's the HOA president. She's doing her job."

"Look at the angle, Mark."

He frowned. He took the phone, squinting at the screen.

"It's the kitchen," he said. "Your kitchen. Looking messy."

"Look where the camera is."

He stared at it.

"It's... high up. Near the ceiling."

"There's no shelf there," I said. "There's no window. Just the wall. And the smoke detector."

He handed the phone back. He shrugged, a casual, dismissive gesture that made my stomach tighten.

"It's a reflection," he said.

"A reflection?"

"Yeah. From the window. Or the oven door. It distorts the perspective. Makes it look higher than it is."

I stared at him.

"Mark, that's impossible. The oven is on the other side of the island."

"Light bounces, Becca. Physics is weird."

He turned away. He started unbuttoning his shirt.

"You're tired," he said. "You're seeing things. Postpartum brain."

"I'm not seeing things," I said, my voice rising. "I know my own kitchen. That photo was taken from the ceiling."

He stopped. He looked at me in the mirror. His eyes were cold. Flat.

"Are you accusing someone of breaking in?" he asked. "Of climbing onto our fridge to take a picture of dirty dishes?"

"I don't know," I whispered. "Maybe."

"Becca, listen to yourself. You sound paranoid."

He turned around. He walked over to me. He put his hands on my shoulders. His grip was firm. Too firm.

"You're stressed," he said. "The baby isn't sleeping. You're not sleeping. It messes with your head."

He kissed my forehead. It felt like a seal of disapproval.

"Diane is just trying to keep the neighborhood nice. She's not Spiderman. She didn't climb our walls."

He let go. He walked into the bathroom.

"Get some sleep," he called over his shoulder. "You'll feel better in the morning."

I sat there. Listening to the water running. Listening to the silence of the house.

It was a beautiful house. Open concept. High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the moonlight.

And the eyes.

I stood up. I walked to the kitchen.

The counters were clean now. I had scrubbed them until my hands were raw.

I looked up.

At the ceiling.

There was nothing there. Just smooth, white drywall. And the recessed lights.

And the smoke detector.

It was a standard model. White plastic. A little green light blinking steadily.

*Blink. Blink. Blink.*

I dragged a chair over from the dining table. I climbed up.

I was close now. I could see the dust on the plastic casing.

I looked at the little green light.

And then I saw it.

Next to the light. A tiny, pinprick hole.

Too small to be a vent. Too perfectly round to be a flaw in the plastic.

I leaned closer.

It wasn't a hole.

It was a lens.

A tiny, black lens, staring right back at me.

My breath hitched. I almost fell off the chair.

I steadied myself against the fridge. My heart was hammering against my ribs.

It wasn't a reflection. It wasn't a trick of the light.

It was a camera.

Inside my house. Inside my kitchen.

I climbed down. My legs felt weak.

I looked at the smoke detector again. It looked so innocent. So mundane. Just a piece of safety equipment.

But it wasn't keeping us safe.

It was watching us.

I heard the bathroom door open. Mark walked out, drying his hair with a towel.

"Becca?" he called. "Are you coming to bed?"

I stood in the dark kitchen. I looked at the camera. I wondered if he was watching the feed right now. I wondered if Diane was watching.

"Becca?"

I took a deep breath. I forced a smile onto my face. It felt tight, fake.

"Coming," I said.

I walked back to the bedroom.

Mark was already in bed, scrolling on his phone. He looked up as I entered.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine," I said. "Just... checking the locks."

"Good," he said. "Can't be too careful."

He put his phone on the nightstand. He turned off the lamp.

"Night, babe."

"Night."

I lay down beside him. I stared at the ceiling.

There was another smoke detector in the bedroom. Right above the bed.

Its green light blinked in the darkness.

*Blink. Blink. Blink.*

Like an unblinking eye.

I pulled the covers up to my chin. I felt exposed. Naked.

I thought about the photo. About Diane's comment. *'Messy counters invite pests.'*

What else had she seen?

What else had *they* seen?

I turned my head. I looked at Mark. He was breathing deeply, already asleep. Or pretending to be.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text.

The screen lit up for a second.

*From: Unknown*

*Subject: Report*

*Status: Compliance.*

I stared at the screen until it went black.

Compliance?

Compliance with what?

I reached out. My hand hovered over his phone.

I knew his passcode. It was our anniversary. 1014.

I could unlock it. I could check.

But if I did... if he woke up...

He shifted in his sleep. His arm flopped over my waist. Heavy. Possessive.

"Love you," he mumbled.

I froze.

"Love you too," I whispered.

I didn't touch the phone.

I lay there in the dark, listening to the house settle. Listening to the hum of the refrigerator. Listening to the silence of the suburbs.

But it wasn't silent.

Not really.

If you listened closely