The miniature surveillance camera concealed inside the digital clock on my dresser continued recording.
I’d set it up two weeks before, after realizing someone had been entering my bedroom repeatedly whenever I wasn’t home.
I accessed the live footage.
And there she was.
Lorraine Lawson, dressed in her luxurious silk robe, opening the interior compartment of my carry-on bag.
She pulled a small, dark object from her pocket.
She placed it inside my suitcase.
Afterward, she made a phone call.
“Preston, it’s done. Make the anonymous report at six sharp.”
A cold sensation spread through my stomach.
My own husband.
The man who had vowed to keep me safe.
The same man who was asleep barely twenty feet from me.
Their plan went far beyond embarrassing me.
They intended to have me detained at the airport for carrying a concealed weapon I didn’t even know was in my possession.
I kept looking at the footage.
