“What’s taking so long, Julian?” Harris called out.

His voice sounded flat, muffled by the hum of the high-tech refrigerator.

“She’s streaming,” Julian said, his eyes still fixed on my phone.

“Turn it off,” Harris said, walking into the kitchen light.

Harris looked tired, his uniform jacket unzipped at the collar to reveal a sweat-stained undershirt.

“I can’t just turn it off,” Julian snapped. “They have my rental car on a traffic feed.”

“They don’t know where we are,” Harris said, stepping closer to the pantry threshold.

“They do,” I said.

I tilted the phone toward Harris so he could see the scrolling text.

*Route9Observer* wrote: “Deputy unit 402 is moving north on the county road. They have the coordinates of the smart-house.”

My kitchen was equipped with an automated security system that linked to the county network for fire and police response.

The online community had bypassed my locked settings by using the public IP address listed on my food blog’s hosting server.

“The smart-hub,” Harris muttered, his face turning pale under the fluorescent lights.