When our landlord, Rick, texted about checking for water damage, it seemed routine. Owen was at work. I was in my robe, sipping coffee. Rick showed up right on time—clipboard in hand, smile stiff as ever. He asked to inspect the bathroom walls and walked in without waiting for a reply.

He stayed in there too long. Ten minutes. No sounds. Just silence. I stood in the hallway, coffee going cold, suddenly uneasy. When he finally emerged, his smile was tighter. “Everything looks fine,” he said, then left without questions or small talk. Something felt… wrong.

That night, I noticed the mirror was off-kilter. A small detail, but enough to tug at my nerves. When I reached behind to adjust it, my fingers brushed something smooth and cool. A hidden mic—nestled behind the mirror. There was no damage, no dust, nothing recent. Meaning it had been there a while. Rick hadn’t installed it. He’d checked it.

Owen confirmed my fear: someone was trying to sabotage him at work. A competitor for a promotion had joked about digging up dirt. We went to the police, filed a report. Days later, the competitor was fired—he’d confessed everything. Rick vanished. No trace. And our apartment? It never felt like home again.

We moved. To a modest house. Brick porch. Quiet. Safe. Owen mounted the new bathroom mirror himself. We still check behind it sometimes. Just in case. We don’t talk much about what happened. But now, when I hear the word “home,” I think of drywall and wires. Of smiles that don’t reach the eyes. Of rebuilding trust—slowly, carefully.