I thought hiring Megan to care for our one-year-old son was the best decision we had made. She arrived early, knew his routine perfectly, sent us pictures throughout the day, and kept the house spotless. Even our son adored her, reaching for her whenever she arrived. Still, a few things bothered me. Some afternoons he seemed unusually sleepy and limp when I returned from work, but Megan always said he had simply exhausted himself playing. I blamed my own anxiety. Then there was our delivery driver, Andre. Every few weeks, he would stare into our Ring camera and move his lips as though trying to tell us something. Unfortunately, our microphone had been broken for months.

One Thursday afternoon, Andre delivered two packages but suddenly stopped halfway to his truck. He stared toward our trash cans, then hurried back and grabbed a piece of cardboard. After writing something on it, he held it directly toward the camera. Four words immediately made my stomach drop: CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN. I called Megan, who casually told me our son had eaten lunch and gone down for his nap. Ryan and I rushed home and searched the trash. Beneath the garbage, we discovered empty bottles of children’s cough syrup, sleep medication, and a pharmacy bag bearing Megan’s name. We called our pediatrician, who ordered us to take our son to the emergency room immediately. Then we ran inside…