Mrs. Anderson stooped to retrieve the fingernail-sized micro-camera, a tiny red dot on its surface indicating it was still active.
Her expression flickered from surprise to anger, and finally, her lips compressed into a thin, hard line, her face was a mask of icy resolve.
I gazed at the camera, a mixture of shock and sorrow in my eyes. Before turning to Mrs. Anderson, my gaze filled with a sense of being wronged—a blend of sadness, resentment, and helplessness brimming in my eyes.
"Mom, what is this?" I asked, my voice quivering slightly, feigning disbelief.
Her voice was soft, almost too calm. "It's nothing, just an ordinary electronic component," she replied. "The kitchen has prepared beef stew tonight. It's very good. Why don't you go downstairs and have some?"
Without waiting for
