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“Are you already moving?”

“Yes.”

I drag a hand over my mouth.

“What were you thinking?”

“What?”

“You disappeared.”

“I texted you.”

“After you fucking left.”

Silence.

I close my eyes—wrong tone. I’m pissed, but the anger is a fear I don’t want to admit.

Ten minutes ago, I knew exactly where she was.

Now she’s in a stranger’s car somewhere in Chicago after midnight, and I didn’t even know she’d walked out the door.

I lower my voice. “Did you check the plate?”

“Yes.”

“The driver?”

“Yes.”

“Everything matches the app?”

“Ya.”

“Does it match, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Air leaves my lungs. “Share the trip with me.”

“I know how Uber works.”

“I know you do.”

“Then why are you acting like I’m twelve?”

Because I know exactly how badly things can go when the wrong person gets behind the wheel. The thought comes fast and ugly. I shove it back down.

“I’m not.”

“Kind of feels like it.”

“I just want to make sure you get home safe. Like I would have if you told me you were ready to leave, and we could’ve ridden together.”

Her side goes quiet.

Then my phone vibrates against my ear. Trip shared. Some of the tension in my shoulders releases.