My name is Chloe Fox. Right now, I’m sitting in a cheap motel room just off Interstate 95, the kind of place where the parking lot is cracked asphalt and the ice machine never really stops groaning. The room smells like stale cigarette smoke baked into the drywall and the sharp chemical bite of industrial carpet cleaner.
The 8 a.m.
sunlight struggles through a grimy window and heavy polyester curtains, turning the air a dull gray.
My laptop is balanced on a desk scarred with coffee rings and peeling laminate, the only bright thing in the room.
On its screen, four high‑definition video feeds from the house I just bought are playing in a silent grid.
My house.
The one in Maplecrest, the tree‑lined, HOA-ruled suburb of Riverton where the mailboxes all match and the lawns look like they’ve been cut with scissors.
The neighborhood I’d dreamed of living in since I was a kid, coding in my high school library while other girls planned prom.
On one feed, I’m watching my family invade it.
My mother, Linda, is standing on the bluestone walkway I spent an entire weekend picking out from a stone yard off Route 22.
She has her hands on her hips, beaming like a victorious general—or maybe like a realtor who just closed a massive sale.
My three older sisters—Briana, Laya, and Tessa—flank her, pointing and chattering with excitement.
A large moving truck idles at the curb, its heavy metal ramp deployed onto the quiet cul‑de‑sac.
Two men in blue jumpsuits stand by the ramp, holding a dolly and looking confused but resigned.
I click the tiny microphone icon on the feed monitoring the front porch. The audio comes through crisp and clear.
“All right, listen up, gentlemen,” my mother announces, clapping her hands together like she’s running a military operation.
She points a commanding finger toward the second floor.
“Here’s the plan.
That way is my bedroom.”
She sweeps her arm toward the right wing of the house.
“Briana gets the master suite—the big room with the sunny windows and the walk‑in closet.” She gestures toward the left.
“Laya, you get the one with the bay window overlooking the garden. It’s perfect for your meditation.” She turns to my youngest‑older sister.
“Tessa gets the balcony room for her art, and the fourth room will be my office.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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