Part 2Smart Homes Make Perfect Death Traps

I stepped into the master bedroom. The air was heavy with a faint, cloying sweetness. Megan never wore perfume; she claimed the phthalates were carcinogenic. This was Melanie’s scent.

I opened the wardrobe. The bottom drawers were half-open, the silk blouses inside rummaged through and tangled. Someone had been looking for something.

"Where are her antidepressants?" Melanie asked suddenly. "The police wanted a record of her meds. I can't find them."

I stopped. Megan didn't have depression. She had hyper-vigilance. She valued her clarity above all else; she would never take anything that suppressed her nervous system.

"She wasn't on meds," I said, shutting the drawer. "You're looking for things that don't exist."

I walked to the nightstand and knelt. I tapped the bottom panel of the wood—three long taps, one short. Our secret code.

A soft click echoed in the quiet room. A hidden compartment popped open an inch.

Before I could reach in, the door slammed open. Adrian charged in and shoved me aside.

"What the hell are you looking for?" He grabbed the nightstand and flipped it over with a violent crash.

Items from the hidden drawer scattered across the floor. A small black USB drive tumbled out, its plastic casing shattering on impact.

While Adrian was busy frantically checking the other debris, I stepped on the remains of the USB, grinding it into the carpet under my heel. I reached down and made a show of picking up a stray debit card.

"Just looking for the money Megan owed me," I said, standing up and opening my palm to show the card.

Melanie stared at the card. "She owed you money? Did Adrian know?"

I slipped the card into my pocket. "He didn't need to."

I walked out of the wreckage. Adrian’s brow was furrowed with suspicion. "You done?"

"I'm done." I pointed to a trash bag by the door. "I'm taking these old coats. Megan said they had too much static electricity—fire hazard. I’ll toss them for her."

Adrian didn't care about old coats. "Fine. Just get out."

I made it to my car and locked the doors. My hands were shaking. I pulled the crushed USB from the tread of my shoe. The flash chip was intact. I used a small multi-tool from my glovebox to straighten the connector and plugged it into my laptop.

A password prompt appeared. Security Question: What do you fear most?

I typed: MEN.

Incorrect.

I typed: DEATH.

Incorrect.

I stared at the screen. As her best friend, I knew Megan wasn't afraid of dying. She was afraid of how she would die. She was afraid of the people she let into her circle.

I typed three words: BEING BETRAYED.

The screen flickered. The folder opened.

There was only one file: a video timestamped 11:30 p.m. last night. One hour before she died.

I clicked play. The footage was from a hidden camera disguised as an outlet near the baseboard. Megan was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her carbon-fiber helmet.

She was picking at the interior lining with her fingernails. She peeled back a piece of the padding to reveal the material underneath. It wasn't carbon fiber. It was cheap, brittle styrofoam.

Megan’s hands began to shake violently. She dropped the helmet and covered her mouth, a silent, sobbing scream racking her body.

The door opened. Adrian walked in carrying a glass of water. "Honey, drink this. It'll help you sleep."

Megan snapped her head up, staring at the glass as if it were a coiled snake. She backed away. "What's in it?"

"Just herbal tea," Adrian said, his smile tight and practiced. "You're wound too tight. You need to rest."

Megan lunged forward, slapping the glass out of his hand. It shattered on the hardwood, the liquid foaming slightly—a white, effervescent reaction.

Adrian’s face went dark. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You swapped my helmet," Megan hissed, pointing at the floor. "And you put something in that water. You're trying to kill me."

Adrian sighed, a heavy, performative sound. He knelt to pick up the helmet. "You're having an episode, Megan. The helmet is fine. You're just exhausted."

He began to walk toward her. Step by step.

Megan backed into the corner, grabbing a can of pepper spray from her pocket. "Don't come any closer. I'll call the police."

Adrian stopped and raised his hands. "Fine. Fine. I'm going. Go take a shower and cool off. I'll clean this up."

Megan watched him like a cornered animal, hugging the wall as she slid out of the room toward the bathroom.

The video cut to black.

My palms were slick with sweat. Adrian had drugged the water. Megan hadn't drunk it, but she had gone into that bathroom. And she had died there.

The mats removed. The helmet sabotaged. It wasn't an accident. It was a choreographed execution designed to look like her own paranoia had finally killed her.

I started the car. My phone buzzed. A text from Adrian.

“Did you take Megan’s phone, Cassidy?”

I stared at the screen. The police had her phone. Why was he asking me?

Unless he knew she had a second phone—a burner for emergencies—and he hadn't found it at the scene.

I replied: “No. Didn't the detectives take it?”

Adrian replied instantly: “Right. Just checking. Didn't want things getting lost.”

He was testing me.

I threw the phone onto the passenger seat and slammed the car into gear.