We had been renting that apartment for three whole years.
It wasn’t fancy or special. Just a plain two-bedroom with beige walls, popcorn ceilings, and that never-ending smell of old paint that lingered no matter how much we cleaned.
But still, it was ours.
We made it ours. With mismatched furniture, books piled sideways on floating shelves, and those silly, colorful magnets we collected from every little weekend road trip we took. It was a quiet life, built slowly, day by day.
I remember that Saturday morning like it was yesterday. It was just after ten a.m. Owen had already left for work. I was still in my robe, my hair thrown up in a messy bun, holding a cup of coffee that was still warm.
Rick, our landlord, had sent a text the day before. There was a burst pipe upstairs, and he needed to come by and check for water damage. It sounded normal, routine. I didn’t think much of it.
When Rick arrived, he was exactly on time, clipboard in hand, wearing that same stiff, forced smile he always wore—the one that never quite reached his cold eyes. His presence felt strange, like he was acting out a part he didn’t really want to play.
“I just need to check your bathroom walls,” he said, stepping inside before I could even offer him coffee or warn him that the bathroom was still a mess from my morning routine. The sink was cluttered with half-used toothpaste, a damp towel was thrown on the floor, and the mirror was streaked with steam from Owen’s shower.
I pulled my robe tighter around me, suddenly feeling exposed and uneasy.
Rick shut the bathroom door behind him. I stood in the hallway, unsure of what to do. Minutes passed. Ten, maybe fifteen. I stayed still, sipping my coffee that was now lukewarm and bitter. I shifted from one foot to the other, glancing at the closed door every few seconds.
But there was nothing. No noise. No footsteps. No sounds of a landlord inspecting a wall.
Just silence.
I tried to tell myself it was normal. Maybe he was writing notes. Maybe he was being extra careful. Maybe I was overthinking things, like I often did when Owen wasn’t home.
“Feed yourself, Hannah,” I whispered under my breath. “Get some breakfast in you and you’ll feel better.”
When Rick finally came out, his smile was even tighter than before. I was slicing avocado for my toast.
“Everything looks fine, Hannah,” he said quickly, avoiding my eyes. Then he just left without another word. No mention of moisture, no questions, no remarks.
I watched the door close behind him, feeling uneasy but not knowing why.
The next night, I noticed something was wrong.
The bathroom mirror—the cheap, rectangular plastic one we’d had since we moved in—looked slightly crooked. Not enough to be obvious, just a tiny tilt that caught my eye.
“Owen, did you bump this?” I asked, toothbrush in hand, tilting my head to look.
“Maybe Rick did,” Owen said from the couch, looking up. “You said he was in there a long time, right? Maybe it got moved while he was checking for water damage or something.”
That’s when I reached behind the mirror to straighten it. My fingers brushed the wall, but instead of cold plaster, I felt a smooth ridge—something strange.
My chest tightened. I froze, hand resting behind the frame, suddenly scared of what I might find if I pulled it even a little.
And then I saw it.
A hole. Perfectly round, no bigger than a pencil tip. At first, I thought it was just a flaw in the wall, maybe a lazy patch or an old screw hole.
But then, something shiny caught the light. I leaned in closer.
A wire.
And behind it, unmistakably, a tiny microphone grille.
It was tiny, almost invisible, tucked inside a neat pocket cut into the drywall. No dust, no mess, edges clean and smooth, like it had been there for a long time.
My breath caught.
There had been no sound of drilling or hammering earlier that day. No buzzing from behind the closed door. Rick hadn’t installed it just that morning.
But clearly, he knew it was there.
Maybe it had been installed years ago and just left hidden, waiting silently. Technology like this could be turned on from the other side of the wall with just the flip of a switch.
I shivered.
“Owen! Come here, now!” I called.
“What’s wrong, Han?” he asked from the hallway.
“Come see.”
Owen stepped in quietly, his face serious. Without a word, he grabbed a screwdriver from under the sink and began unscrewing the mirror. His hands shook slightly. When the last screw came out, he tilted the mirror forward. We both bent over, phones ready with flashlights shining into the hole.
The hole went all the way through the wall—and, horror of horrors—it opened into the apartment next door.
That’s when everything changed. Not just fear, but cold dread wrapped around me like a thick fog. This wasn’t an accident or a fluke. This was planned.
We took pictures of the hole, the microphone, the wall.
Neither of us said a word. We just grabbed our jackets, locked the door behind us, and walked. We walked until we found a park bench under some maple trees.
There, finally, Owen told me everything.
“Hannah, I didn’t want to say anything until it was official,” Owen said quietly, voice heavy. “But I’m up for a big promotion. Vice President level.”
“That’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, surprised.
“There’s more,” he said, rubbing his nose like he always did when stressed. “It’s between me and two other guys. One of them has been… off. Passive-aggressive. About a week ago, he said something weird.”
“What?” I gasped.
“He said if I got the promotion, he’d have to dig up dirt on me.”
The words hung between us, thick and dark.
“So… the microphone?” I asked slowly. “You think it’s connected?”
“I don’t know what else it could be,” Owen said, looking straight at me. “Rick’s always been a little strange with us, but this? This crossed a line. They wouldn’t use a camera because it’s obvious. But a tiny mic, hidden behind a mirror? It’s sneaky, almost invisible. I’m sure they convinced Rick to help.”
My stomach flipped. I felt violated in a way I never had before. This was more than privacy—it was sabotage. Personal betrayal.
That evening, we went to the police. I was ready for disbelief or brushing it off.
But the detective barely blinked.
“It happens more than you think,” he said. “Especially in corporate battles where secrets are weapons.”
We showed him the photos, filed a report, gave him names where it made sense.
He took notes but warned it wouldn’t be easy to find proof without Rick’s help.
“The device is cheap, off-the-shelf tech. Tracing it would be like chasing smoke. Especially with Rick gone and no other evidence.”
After filing the report, Owen sent Rick a message.
“We found something behind the bathroom mirror. You were the only one in there. We need to talk.”
No reply.
Owen called him the next day. It rang twice, then went to voicemail.
He left a calm but firm message.
“Rick, we need a serious talk. We know about the mirror. Explain yourself before we involve the police.”
Still no answer.
I tried too. I emailed him carefully, not wanting to reveal too much but needing to see if he’d react.
No response.
Three days later, Owen drove past the rental office where Rick sometimes worked.
The lights were off. The sign was gone.
It was like Rick had vanished.
The detective later told us Rick left almost no digital trail. No full name on the lease, no tax papers, no landlord registration. A ghost in the system.
After that, silence.
No explanations. No denials. Just Rick disappearing as if he’d never existed except for the rent checks and fake smiles.
A few days later, Owen came home smelling lemon and herbs cooking in the kitchen.
I was plating grilled fish and veggies—something light and comforting after all the stress.
I didn’t expect much talk. The police had no leads, and we were drained.
But when Owen stepped inside, his face said something had changed.
“He got fired, babe,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“Who?” I asked, turning with tongs in hand.
“Derek. The guy who made that weird joke about digging up dirt. He’s out.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Owen sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Michael, the other guy up for the promotion, came forward. Said Derek tried to rope him into digging dirt on me, even offered to share the role if Derek got it. Michael refused but his conscience made him tell the boss.”
Owen explained how Michael had been suspicious for weeks but didn’t know Derek’s plan until the offer.
“So it was him?” I said, setting the plate down slowly.
“It was,” Owen said. “He admitted it all. Said he was desperate, thought my record was too clean to beat. Since he found our address on a company form, he got Rick to help.”
“Rick? No surprise there,” I muttered, squeezing fresh lemon on the fish.
“Yeah, Rick was the easiest part. Said he didn’t even have to drill—the holes were already there from some old system. Just slipped the mic in and hid it behind the mirror. Rick was in it for the money.”
I sat down, the weight of it all pressing on me.
“He’ll probably never pay for it,” Owen said quietly. “But Derek lost what he wanted most.”
When our lease came up two months later, we didn’t even discuss staying.
We both just knew something about that apartment was ruined.
No amount of paint or cleaning could fix that.
So we moved to a modest little house at the edge of town.
Nothing fancy. A brick front porch, sunlit kitchen, and walls that felt solid.
The first thing Owen did was hang a new bathroom mirror himself.
I stood by with a flashlight, checking every screw, every bracket…
Just in case.
We didn’t talk much about what happened. Sometimes silence felt easier.
But sometimes I’d catch Owen staring at the mirror, not at his reflection, but at the space behind it.
One night, two months after moving in, I found him sitting on the edge of the bathtub, looking exhausted.
“I keep wondering how much they heard,” he said quietly.
I sat beside him, close.
“There was nothing in our talks that could hurt you. If I remember, we were mostly talking about food and your fishing trip with friends. Nothing serious before we found the mirror.”
“I know,” he sighed. “But still… it feels like something was stolen. Our privacy. Our safety. The feeling that our home belongs to us.”
“But we got it back,” I said, smiling. “And this home feels perfect now.”
That night, I lay awake, replaying it all in my head.
Rick’s stiff entrance. The silent minutes behind the door. His eyes that never met mine.
How long had that microphone been there?
Was it installed years ago, waiting? Or did it start the morning he came?
I don’t think we’ll ever know.
But one thing is clear:
Our trust was broken in the place we should have felt safest.
And it almost cost Owen the career he worked so hard for.
Now, when I hear the word “home,” I think of drywall and wires.
I think of mirrors you don’t touch without checking first.
I think of how betrayal doesn’t always shout—it sometimes wears a tight smile and carries a clipboard.
And most of all, I think of how we quietly, carefully rebuilt our home.
