It was the opposite.

I sold it because I was no longer willing to anchor a bright future to a house full of dark memories and ignored warnings.

The day before the new owners took possession, I walked into the empty garage one last time.

The shelves were bare, but the little camera was still mounted high near the ceiling, and I could still see the faint marks on the concrete where my floor safe had been, and where, on the worst afternoon of my life, I had dragged my broken body twelve impossible feet to reach for help.

For a long time, I believed that what saved me that day was the camera, and the hidden phone, and the files in the safe.

I was wrong.