My Husband Sent Me A Christmas Gift From Dubai. The Office Janitor Saw The Ribbon And Told Me Not To Open It. She Might Have Just Saved My Life.
The Social Media Trap
I looked at them, a grieving mother and a haunted old detective, and I felt a surge of strength. I was not alone. From that day on, I began my performance. I posted dark, melancholic statuses on Facebook, setting them to be visible only to close friends and family, lamenting my sleepless nights and strange hallucinations in the empty apartment.
I wrote about splitting headaches, about forgetting to turn off the stove, forgetting to lock the door. I was turning myself into a wounded animal, a tempting piece of bait writhing in despair, all to lure the beast out of its hiding place. With every post, I imagined Caspian’s smug face as he read it. He must be smiling to himself, thinking that fate was on his side, that I was walking straight into the death he had planned without him having to lift a finger.
Following the plan meticulously crafted with Detective Beckett, I began transforming my social media profile into the grim diary of a woman spiraling into despair. I carefully adjusted the privacy settings so only my family and, more importantly, Caspian could see the posts. I wanted him to believe I was truly alone and at my wit’s end.
It started with photos of my blank ceiling taken at 3:00 a.m., accompanied by short, haunting captions: “Another sleepless night. My head feels like it’s splitting open. When will the noise in my head finally stop?”
In the following days, I escalated the drama. I posted a picture of a bottle of sleeping pills scattered on my desk next to a mountain of unfinished work. I wrote about an invisible fear that gripped me whenever I entered my large, cold apartment, a feeling of being watched from the shadows. I deliberately took a photo of a badly burnt pot on the stove, complaining about my worsening memory: “I even forgot to turn off the burner. Almost burned the whole place down. What is happening to me?”
Just as Detective Beckett predicted, the beast lurking in the shadows began to smell the blood of its wounded prey. Less than 10 minutes after I posted the picture of the burnt pot, my phone rang. It was Caspian.
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes to regulate my breathing, summoning the most fragile, bewildered tone I could manage before answering. Caspian’s frantic, concerned voice came through the line: “Sloan, honey! What happened? I just saw your post. How could you let the pot burn like that? Are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s been going on with you lately? I’m worried sick.”
Hearing that voice, a chill ran down my spine. This cloyingly sweet fake concern that once melted my heart now made me want to vomit. I sniffled, forcing out a choked sob. “Caspian… I’m so scared. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My head hurts so much and I keep forgetting things. Sometimes I just want to let everything go, to find some peace. I’m just so tired…”
I let my sentence trail off, leaving a terrifying pause just long enough for his imagination to paint a picture of me standing on the edge of a precipice.
Caspian was silent for a moment, and then his voice became urgent, more resolute than ever. “Don’t talk like that! Don’t you dare do anything foolish. I can’t leave you alone like this. I’m going to arrange my work here. I’ll take a leave of absence and fly back to be with you immediately. Just wait for me, okay? I’m coming home to take care of you.”
Preparing the Stage
I feigned surprise, my voice trembling with emotion. “Really, Caspian? You can really come back? But what about your project? It’s so busy right now. Won’t you get fired?”
Caspian sighed, his voice dripping with affection. “Work is important, but you are more important than anything. I can find another job, but I can’t live without you. Just stay home and be good. Take your medicine. I’ll book my ticket and let you know when to pick me up.”
After hanging up, I threw the phone onto the sofa as if it were something filthy. I wiped the crocodile tears from my face, a cold smile forming on my lips. He took the bait even faster than I expected. He wasn’t coming back because he was worried about me; he was coming back to ensure my death would perfectly fit the “accident due to depression” script he was so eager to direct.
As soon as I confirmed Caspian was flying back from “Dubai,” I immediately notified Detective Beckett and Zola. Time was short; we had to turn my apartment into a perfect trap before he arrived. Beckett, with his years of experience as an investigator, had already prepared a set of micro cameras, the latest models that could stream live footage to a cloud server without emitting any light or signal.
The next morning, Zola showed up at my door disguised as a maintenance worker. She wore a baggy blue jumpsuit and a baseball cap pulled low, carrying a heavy tool bag to avoid suspicion from neighbors and building security. I had already informed management that I needed emergency repairs on my plumbing and electrical systems due to recent flickering lights and leaks—symptoms that perfectly matched my social media narrative of a home in disrepair.
Zola entered and locked the door behind her. We exchanged a knowing glance and got to work. Beckett directed us remotely via phone, guiding us on the best placements for the cameras to be both discreet and comprehensive. The most critical location was the kitchen, specifically the area around the main gas valve and the stove—the place Beckett and I were certain would be Caspian’s chosen stage.
My hands trembled as I held the ladder for Zola to install a tiny camera, no bigger than a pinhead, into a crevice in the range hood, its lens aimed directly at the gas cooktop. Zola worked with swift efficiency; her rough hands, accustomed to mops and brooms, were now deftly connecting wires and hiding them within the wall’s utility panel.
She whispered, “Don’t worry, Miss. I’ve hidden it well. He’d have to tear the whole kitchen apart to find it.”
Next was the bedroom, the most private space but also where I would be most vulnerable. We installed a camera disguised as a power outlet across from the bed and another hidden in the vent of the air conditioning unit. The living room was also fitted with two wide-angle cameras to monitor his every move. It took us nearly 3 hours, sweat soaking through our clothes, to finish the installation.
Beckett confirmed from his end that the feeds were clear, with sharp video and crisp audio. Looking at the tablet screen, seeing every corner of my home displayed before me, I felt a strange mix of security and dread. The place that was once my sanctuary was now a stage, a deadly arena where invisible eyes waited to record a crime.
Before she left, Zola gripped my hand, her eyes filled with concern. “Miss Sloan, from now on every word you say, every move you make in this house has to be careful. When he comes back, you’ll be living with the enemy. Acting 24/7. Can you handle it?”
I looked at her and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Zola. I can handle it. For justice, for your daughter, and for my own life. I will play the part of the naive wife until the very end.”
