My one saving grace—the only one—is that the app for the security system isn’t anywhere near the others. You never know when you might need to get to it lickety-split, Big Jim told me, and this way you won’t have to go huntin’. At his advice, I saved it to my phone’s dock instead.

The man finds the security app in one go, tapping it without asking the name or for me to point out the logo. It is password protected, of course, and he flips the screen around and holds it up to my face. The lock screen dissolves into a bold, red block—armed Stay—with below it, five camera feeds.

“I thought you said there were six.”

“There are.”

He holds up the phone, wags it by his temple so I can see the five tiny squares. A birds-eye view of the front yard, multiple shots of the driveway and terrace, the stepping-stones on the right side flanked with trees shifting in the wind. “Then why’re there only five on this app?”

“Because the Ring is a separate app.”

The only problem—and it’s a big one—is that the Ring app is saved on the third page. If I direct him there, he’ll spot all the other apps, including the one stupidly labeled “iSpy.” Footage from three hidden nanny cams, providing full-color, high-definition, 110-degree views of the playroom upstairs. Undeniable, irrefutable proof that I looked this man in the eyes just now and lied.

“If you swipe down on the screen, you can search for it.”

“I know how to work an iPhone, Jade.”

His sarcasm gets zero reaction from me. I hold my breath and sit stock-still as he drags a finger down the screen, the movement slow and obstinate, like Baxter when I remind him to wash behind his ears. But the man doesn’t go flipping around the pages, doesn’t go searching for the app himself. When he ticks in those four little letters in the search bar, my lungs release in a soft whoosh.

“Why are there so many people on your street? One, two, three, four, five, six—no, seven bodies that I can see. And what the heck are your neighbors doing? How many kids do they have?”

Five, but they live part-time with their dad. I always know when it’s Tanya’s turn because she lets them run off steam in the yard.

I stare at the countertop, silent.

Except for an occasional burst of angry breath, Beatrix is silent, too, the sounds much like the ones she makes whenever Cam or I discipline her. Beatrix’s quick mind rarely needs me to explain things. She understands, as I do, that silence is a weapon of control—our only one in this horror show.

Baxter twists on my lap, blinking his big blue eyes at mine. “But, Mommy, what about the Santa cams?”