My hand shook as I reached out.

I gripped the heavy glass jar of sea salt and slowly pulled it from its slot.

The wooden carousel creaked, a sound that felt deafening in the empty kitchen.

Behind the space where the jar had sat, a small black cylinder was embedded in the central pillar.

It was no larger than a shirt button, secured with a dab of dark epoxy.

A microscopic lens was set into the center of the cylinder, angled slightly downward.

I leaned in, my breath fogging the polished wood of the rack.

A wire, thin as a single strand of black hair, ran from the back of the camera.

It disappeared into a tiny hole drilled directly through the marble countertop.

He had ruined the imported stone just to hide this.

My stomach turned over.

I looked at the angle of the lens.

It pointed directly at my cutting board, the prep sink, and the stove.

He had watched me.

Every meal I had prepared for the last eight months had been recorded.

He had watched me chop vegetables, measure spices, and stir sauces.