At the Oak Street Diner, the five-dollar meatloaf special came on a chipped white plate, and my phone buzzed against the table before I’d even picked up my fork.

I flipped it over.

The alert read Home Office, Motion, 12:17 PM.

The waitress put down a cup of coffee and said, “Pie’s on the house today, hon.

Apple.”

“Thanks,” I said, and opened the camera feed.

Fiona, my sister, came in through the front door with her phone already raised.

She used a key.