It dawned on me that this wasn’t just about a creepy host recording guests. Something bigger was happening. That “Airbnb” was a front — not a home, not a vacation spot, but a setup. Watching. Collecting. Waiting. We didn’t go back. We didn’t even call the host again. Instead, we drove three more hours until we reached a city hotel, then I smashed the cheap phone I’d used to book the place. I filed a police report the next morning, but part of me wondered if it would even matter.
