…seven.” I slammed the laptop shut and called 911. The dispatcher told me to unplug my router, lock myself in the bathroom, and wait. I did exactly that. At 3:09 a.m., the light on the dead router blinked once, then went dark again, like someone had tried to reconnect.
The detective who came the next morning wasn’t surprised. “Did you have a technician in here recently?” she asked. I thought hard. Then I remembered. In August, a delivery driver had brought a package and asked to use my bathroom. I’d said yes. He’d been in there for a long time.
They found it behind the toilet tank. A tiny device, smaller than a matchbox, plugged into the outlet. Connected to my Wi-Fi. Giving him full access to my laptop, my accounts, my camera. He’d been logging in every night. Ordering me gifts. Watching me open them.
The detective asked me to do one more thing. Keep the router off. Leave my phone on. And at 7 a.m., answer the door like nothing was wrong.
At 6:58, the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. A man in a brown delivery jacket, holding a paper bag and a coffee. He was smiling. Behind him, at the bottom of my stairs, two plainclothes officers were already walking up. He never got to hand me the breakfast.
He had done this to six other women on his delivery route. All of them had let him use the bathroom. All of them had assumed they were being paranoid.
I moved two months later. I don’t let anyone use my bathroom anymore, and I check my outlets more than I’d like to admit. But I left a five-star review for the police department instead. The detective emailed me back. “First five stars I’ve ever gotten,” she wrote. “Breakfast is on me next time. In public. With witnesses.”
