“That’s what the security company initially believed too.”
I stare at him. I spent a ridiculous amount of money on that alarm system after my streaming audience exploded last year. Cameras. Motion sensors. Smart locks. Reinforced entry points. The works. And somebody bypassed it anyway. A cold unease slowly creeps beneath my skin.
“How were you notified?” I ask.
Officer Delgado glances toward the security van outside before answering.
“Whoever entered the house disabled the main alarm system,” he says carefully. “But your security provider has a secondary monitoring feature tied to interior motion irregularities and system tampering.”
A cold knot tightens low in my stomach.
“They tripped a silent fail-over alert without realizing it,” he continues. “The monitoring center attempted to contact youfirst, then dispatched private security when they couldn’t reach anyone. Security arrived and contacted law enforcement.”
I stare at him.
“So someone knew enough to bypass the system…”
“But not enough to bypass all of it,” Delgado says.
That should make me feel better. Somehow, it doesn’t. All of this makes no sense. Most burglaries are messy. Fast. Opportunistic. This feels different and more personal.
The younger officer hesitates slightly before speaking again.
“There was one thing upstairs.”
Every muscle in my body tightens.
“What thing?”
“Your bedroom closet doors were open when patrol arrived. Is that normal?”
For one strange second, I can’t breathe.
“No, I’m sort of anal about everything being in its place. I’m sure they were closed when I left this morning.”
The officers keep talking after that. Security upgrades. Temporary patrol checks. Insurance documentation. Recommendations about staying elsewhere for a few nights while repairs are completed.
The words blur together. Because all I can think about is someone standing in my bedroom. Someone opening my closet. Someone moving through the most private parts of my life without me knowing.
By the time the officers finally leave, the house feels enormous around me. Too quiet and empty.
I stand alone in the kitchen, staring out toward the dark patio doors overlooking the pool. My reflection stares back at me in the glass.
I’m thirty-two years old. A celebrity chef and cookbook author. As of last year, I’m also now a streaming personality.
More than anything, I’m a woman who can cook for hundreds of people without blinking. And right now I can’t even force myself to walk upstairs alone.
My phone buzzes against the counter. It’s Vanessa. I answer immediately.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathes. “I’ve been waiting for you to call me.”
“I’m okay,” I say automatically.
“You sound terrible.”
Because I am terrible. Exhausted. Embarrassed by how shaken I actually am.
Vanessa has known me since culinary school. Before television appearances and sponsorship deals. She’s been by my side as millions of people started watching me online.
