I walked over to it and leaned down to see the image. I was dying to know what kind of internet content Laura found suitable and interesting.

But this was just a static image, in strange gray tones.

Then something about it struck me as familiar—the shapes of the objects. Their relationship to each other.

A bed. Another bed. Two doors. A desk, two windows.

This was the nursery. But . . . I didn’t remember seeing a camera in there. If I had, I would have been weirded out and spent every day feeling self-conscious about being watched.

I noticed multiple tabs at the top of the screen and clicked through them one at a time: The hallway. Agatha’s old bedroom, from a strange, high angle—with Agatha in the bed, asleep.

Barrett’s bedroom. The foyer. The library.

And then, the very last feed—a camera placed high in the corner of my tiny bedroom.

I stood back, watching the live feed with a mix of horror and disbelief. With a growing sense of mortification, I wondered if I had ever changed clothes in that room. Had Laura seen that? Had John?

Oh, God, and had Barrett and I ever kissed in any of those rooms?

Yes, yes, of course we had.

I felt danger mounting with every second I remained at the computer. I knew she wouldn’t be pleased to come in and find me there. But there were more answers I needed.

On the sidebar, under the link to the security feeds, was a folder labeled SELECTS. I opened it and found a list of subfolders—divided by room. I opened NANNY’S ROOM and was greeted by a list of long, convoluted file names. I clicked one, and it opened.

I shivered. The image showed Barrett and me, standing close. I knew we were about to kiss. The volume was down, but I could hear tinny versions of our voices.

She could hear us, too?

I told myself to calm down. If I asked Laura about this, she could give me a reasonable explanation, right? She had a reasonable explanation for everything. She could explain why the cat had died and why Lily wrote such angry things and why Agatha had to be sedated and . . . I lost my train of thought and looked at the computer again. I was vaguely aware that I had overstayed my welcome.

I fast-forwarded through a few more selects from my bedroom.

And then I found something that made me gasp.

It was me—getting out of bed in the middle of the night. Opening the nightstand drawer and pulling something out. And then writing the word GO on the wall, in black letters . . .