They get sloppy.

They start to enjoy it, and they start to brag, and they leave, everywhere behind them, the trail of a person who never once imagined they would have to account for what they did.

My mother and my sister had committed their crime against the one man on earth whose entire career was catching people exactly like them.

And they had done it inside a house wired, floor to ceiling, to record.

I did not need luck.

I only needed to do, against my own family, the thing I did every day for strangers who paid me a fortune for it.