Because I’d started to think I was imagining it.”

I sat at my own kitchen table at eleven at night, forty-five years old, a regional director of an engineering firm, a man who once played security footage on a conference-room screen in front of his neighbors to prove he was on the right side of something.

“I’ve been telling this story for seven years,” I said.

“About the fridge.

About the note.

About the cameras.”