The blinking started as a tiny itch in Pilar’s eye. Two nights into a long weekend on an unfamiliar mattress, she sat up and whispered, “Why is the smoke detector flashing?”
I dragged a chair over, unscrewed the dome—and froze. A tiny lens stared back.
No arguing. We packed like people fleeing a fire—chargers yanked, toiletries tossed, clothes shoved in a bag. Ten minutes later, we were in the car, fluorescent gas station lights overhead, sipping warm Cokes because our hands needed something to do.
I posted a short, furious review: “Hidden camera in the bedroom. Unsafe.” Ten minutes later, a reply popped up, verified badge shining:
“You fool, this is a felony. You’ve just tampered with an active police sting.”
I laughed at first—until the details landed too fast, too precise. Pilar asked, “Is this… FBI?” We aren’t FBI people. I teach middle school science; she’s a doula. Closest we get to law enforcement is separating kids arguing over whose turn it is to feed a bearded dragon.
Within an hour, my account was suspended. A case manager named Rochelle called, calm but vague. “The device you removed was part of an authorized surveillance operation,” she said. “We’re forwarding your contact to a federal liaison.”
We checked into a chain hotel, slept like people with one shoe on—every knock making our hearts climb.
Agent Darren Mistry arrived the next afternoon: shaved head, soft voice, intentional eye contact. He explained the rental had been under watch for months. A local man suspected of trafficking girls used short-term rentals to move them. Our review spooked him; the feed went dark.
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