Chapter 8
“Is it her?” I asked.
“I can’t tell.”
Emily’s breathing came fast through the speakers.
“Stay on the main road,” Michael said.
“I am.”
“Drive toward the police station.”
“I’m trying.”
I heard Noah crying in the background.
My hands began shaking.
“Emily, how far?”
“Seven minutes.”
“Do not pull over.”
“I know.”
Michael was already calling Detective Alvarez from his phone.
The silver SUV stayed behind Emily through two turns.
Then three.
“It’s her,” Emily said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“She just pulled closer.”
“Can you see her?”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“What is she doing?”
“Nothing. She’s just following.”
Michael shouted into his phone, “My mother is following the vehicle carrying my son.”
Alvarez asked for Emily’s location.
Michael gave it.
“Officers are moving toward her.”
Emily began crying.
“Sarah, she’s flashing her headlights.”
“Don’t react.”
“What does she want?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Should I speed up?”
“No,” Michael said. “Drive normally. Stay predictable.”
Noah cried louder.
I could barely think.
Then Emily screamed.
“What happened?”
“She pulled beside me!”
“Keep driving!”
Patricia’s SUV moved next to Emily.
Emily said, “She’s waving.”
“What?”
“She’s telling me to pull over.”
“Don’t!”
“I’m not!”
Then we heard a horn.
Long.
Aggressive.
“Emily, police are almost there.”
“How do you know?”
“Alvarez said—”
Sirens interrupted me.
Emily sobbed with relief.
“I hear them.”
A second later, the horn stopped.
“What is Patricia doing?”
“She’s slowing down.”
“Keep going.”
“She turned!”
Michael told Alvarez.
Police units changed direction.
Emily continued toward the station.
I kept her on the phone until she was inside the parking lot surrounded by officers.
Then I finally breathed.
Michael’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“She followed my son.”
“Yes.”
“I told her not to go near him.”
“She doesn’t care.”
“No.”
His voice changed.
“She cares about what she wants.”
It was the first time I heard him describe his mother without an excuse.
We reached the police station forty minutes later.
I ran to Emily.
She stood beside her car holding Noah.
I took him into my arms.
He smelled like formula and baby lotion.
I kissed his forehead over and over.
Emily was trembling.
“She knew he was in my car.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Michael looked at me.
Neither of us needed to say it.
Patricia had always known too much.
Always knew when we left.
When we returned.
Where our appointments were.
Who called.
What we planned.
I had assumed she was nosy.
Now I wondered how far it went.
Detective Alvarez came outside.
“We located Patricia.”
“Where?” Michael asked.
“Her attorney’s office.”
“Is she being arrested?”
“She’s being taken into custody for violating the protective order.”
I felt relief.
Then guilt for feeling relief.
Then I decided I didn’t care.
“What happens next?”
“That depends on the court.”
Michael asked, “Can she get out?”
“Possibly.”
My relief disappeared.
Alvarez continued.
“But any release conditions will likely prohibit contact with you, Sarah, Noah, and possibly your sister.”
“Likely?”
He looked at me carefully.
“We will request strict conditions.”
Emily crossed her arms.
“She tried to break into my home and then followed me with a baby in my car.”
“That will be documented.”
I looked at him.
“I need more than documentation.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“Sarah,” Michael said softly.
I turned.
“I have spent months being told I’m overreacting.”
My voice shook.
“I am done being reasonable about someone who gave my child medication, grabbed me while I held him, kept medical records on me, broke into my sister’s house, and chased my baby through traffic.”
Alvarez let me finish.
Then he said, “You are not overreacting.”
I stopped.
Those words again.
You are not overreacting.
How many times had Patricia taught me to doubt myself?
How many times had Michael reinforced it without realizing?
Alvarez continued.
“We’re treating this seriously.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
That evening, Michael checked our phones.
Then our diaper bag.
Then the stroller.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a tracker.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You asked how Mom knew where Noah was.”
My stomach tightened.
“She could have guessed.”
“She showed up at the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“Then Emily’s.”
“Yes.”
“And knew when Emily was coming back.”
“Maybe she watched the house.”
“Maybe.”
He turned the diaper bag upside down.
Diapers.
Wipes.
Clothes.
Pacifier.
Formula.
Nothing unusual.
Then he examined the stroller.
Under the storage basket was a small black plastic object.
Michael froze.
“What is it?”
He pulled it loose.
A Bluetooth tracker.
My stomach dropped.
“Oh my God.”
Emily stared.
“That’s not mine.”
“Not mine either,” Michael said.
I felt sick.
“How long has it been there?”
“No idea.”
“Did Patricia put it there?”
“We can’t prove that.”
Emily laughed bitterly.
“Who else?”
Michael photographed it and called Alvarez.
An officer came to collect it.
The implications were terrifying.
Patricia may have been following us for weeks.
Maybe months.
Suddenly every coincidence made sense.
The time she “happened” to be at the pediatrician’s parking lot.
The afternoon she arrived at a café while I was meeting Emily.
The way she always knew when we stayed out longer than expected.
I had laughed once and told Michael his mother must have psychic powers.
She didn’t.
She may have had a tracker.
That night, none of us slept much.
Noah woke twice.
Both times, I held him longer than necessary.
At three in the morning, Michael sat beside me in the dark.
“We need our own place.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care if it’s small.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care if I work two jobs.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
I shifted Noah against my shoulder.
“You working every waking hour won’t fix our marriage.”
Michael went quiet.
“We need you present.”
“I know.”
“We need counseling.”
He nodded.
“And boundaries that don’t disappear because your mother cries.”
“I know.”
“And I need to know you believe me when I say something is wrong.”
His eyes filled.
“I do.”
“You didn’t.”
“I know.”
“That will take time.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
He wasn’t defending himself.
That mattered.
Not enough.
But it mattered.
The next morning, Alvarez called.
The tracker had been registered to an account.
Not Patricia’s.
Michael’s face tightened.
“Whose?”
The detective answered.
“Yours.”
Michael stared at the phone.
“That’s impossible.”
“Do you own any location trackers?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had an account with the manufacturer?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize this email address?”
Alvarez read it.
Michael shook his head.
“No.”
I recognized part of it.
“Wait.”
Everyone looked at me.
“What?” Michael asked.
I repeated the email quietly.
Then remembered.
“That’s based on your high school nickname.”
Michael’s face changed.
Only one person still called him that.
Patricia.
The account had been created using Michael’s name.
A nickname.
And an old birth year variation.
Someone had made it look like the tracker belonged to him.
My stomach twisted.
“She was setting you up too,” I whispered.
Michael said nothing.
Alvarez continued.
“There’s more.”
I almost laughed from exhaustion.
There was always more.
“What now?”
“The email account was used to purchase three trackers.”
Emily looked around.
“Three?”
“We found one.”
Michael’s face went pale.
“Where are the other two?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
I immediately looked toward Noah’s car seat.
We searched it.
Nothing.
Then Emily searched her car.
Nothing.
Michael suddenly ran outside.
He opened our car.
Five minutes later, he came back holding another black tracker.
His face was white.
“Under the passenger seat.”
I stared.
“That’s two.”
Emily whispered, “Where’s the third?”
No one answered.
Later that afternoon, Michael received a call from the property manager at his workplace.
He listened.
Then slowly sat down.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“They found it.”
“The third tracker?”
He nodded.
“Where?”
“In my work truck.”
I felt confused.
“Why would Patricia track your work truck?”
Michael looked at the floor.
Then at me.
“She wasn’t tracking me.”
“What do you mean?”
“My coworker borrows that truck.”
“Who?”
Michael swallowed.
“Jason.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Then I saw his expression.
“Who is Jason?”
Michael’s voice dropped.
“My boss’s son.”
“And?”
“He’s also the person Mom kept insisting I spend time with after work.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t understand.”
Michael looked sick.
“Neither do I.”
Then his phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
He opened it.
May you like
One sentence.
ASK YOUR MOTHER WHAT SHE PAID JASON TO DO.
