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Two teenagers walk out of the grocery store.

No blonde curls.

No brown wig.

No sunglasses large enough to conceal half a fucking face.

Interesting.

I open my door. My boots hit pavement. I don't bother looking around. The alert already narrowed down the problem.

I walk toward the back of the truck, crouch beside the rear wheel, and run my hand beneath the fender.

There.

My fingers close around the tracker.

I pull it free.

An AirTag.

I stare at it, then smile. “You're fucking insane.”

I straighten and scan the parking lot again, slower this time.

Cars. People. Nothing that immediately registers as wrong.

That gets my attention.

Callie hasn’t been subtle.

The first time she followed me, she used her friend's car and stayed close enough that I could've read the fucking inspection sticker.

Yesterday she walked into my gym wearing the same ridiculous brown wig she'd worn the day before.

Callie doesn't hide well.

But she learns.

I turn the AirTag over between my fingers.

Cute.

But I'm sure as hell not taking it home.

I deliberately look down at it again.

Give her time.

If she's watching me, she knows I found it. That might make her move.

I wait for a few beats.

Nothing.

Where the fuck are you?

My amusement fades slightly.