The box arrived two days later. Clara waited until Marc left for work, then installed the cameras herself—one above the kitchen doorway, another angled toward the living room, a third near the hallway to the bedrooms. Nothing overt. Just enough to catch what she needed, if there was something to catch.
At first, she checked the footage obsessively. Each night before bed. Each morning before coffee. But all she ever saw was Rosa folding laundry, sweeping the floor, humming softly to herself. Marc came and went like always—smiling, distracted, never crossing a line. Nothing incriminating. Nothing at all.