Page 73 of Runaway for the Grumpy Daddy

I lay still and listened to him shift in the bed. Mattress springs. A sigh. He was checking whether my phone made a sound. It did not. I had kept it on silent since the first voicemail.

Six weeks ago, Boone had asked me how I wanted my phone handled during our first night under rules.

Kept on, I had said. Face down if I wanted quiet, but on.

Why?

Because nobody takes it.

He had nodded once and written it down.

Nobody takes your phone.

Not even him. Especially not him. The rule existed because I named it, and the first time I realized I could name a thing like that, I had cried over the paper hard enough to blur the ink.

Now my phone sat on Derek's counter.

But the rule had not stopped existing because he broke it.

That mattered.

The screen lit a third time.

DEREK: I meant what I said. I can make this easy or hard.

My fear changed shape.

It did not leave. Fear is not that polite. It stayed in my throat and under my ribs, old and chemical and entirely awake.

But something stepped beside it.

Observation.

I stared at the words until the screen went dark, then repeated them in my head exactly. Punctuation. Capitalization. Time.

Eleven-twenty-one.

I can make this easy or hard.

The lock screen still showed his name because I had deleted his contact in Butte and added it back at the motel off the interstate, hands shaking while I told him I was coming. The number would be visible in the thread. The voicemail was still there. The call log. The county file number saved in my notes.

Evidence.

Doc had taught me to chart facts, not theories.

Cow recumbent at 02:10.

Temperature 101.8.

No visible trauma.

Derek filed complaint after public provocation.

Derek promised withdrawal if I returned.

I arrived.

Complaint withdrawn.