He didn’t tell her what he’d seen until they were already speeding away, headlights carving through dark backroads. The plastic shell of the “smoke detector” had come off too easily, revealing glass that didn’t belong there. No alarm components, no wiring for safety — just a cold, unblinking eye pointed at their bed. His hands shook as he snapped it shut, pretending nothing was wrong.

At the diner, under fluorescent lights that felt safer than darkness, rage briefly steadied him. The review he posted was raw, frantic, maybe even incoherent. But the host’s reply cut through the noise: they insisted it was a damaged “transmitter,” then slipped in that chilling line — “They’ll come looking for it.” Only later, scrolling through photos, did he see the red dot near the curtain, aimed perfectly at the door. By the time the police took his statement, he already knew: no refund, no apology, no investigation could give back what was taken — the quiet belief that locked doors and five-star ratings meant they were ever truly alone.