“I’m sorry? No. I...”
I step into the office. I don’t like the way she sounds––upset. Well, fuck that. I can’t let her deal with an angry customer on her first day of the job. I walk over to her and reach for the receiver whispering, “Lainie. Let me.”
She releases it, looking back at me. Her face is flushed again but not in a good way. Her eyes are watery. What the ever-loving fuck?
“This is Keeton.”
I listen as a man says, “Who the fuck are you? I was talking to mywife.”
Her ex-husband is calling her at work? “Ex-wife, you mean?”
“I asked you a question. Who. The. Fuck. Is. This?” The douche is belligerent, that’s for sure.
I’m not going to stoke this asshole’s flame. Not when I look over at Lainie and see her biting her pink nail. So, I calmly say, “Keeton Gustafson.”
“Well, Keeton Gustafson,” he spits. “Put my fucking wife back on the line unless you’re the one she’s whoring around with. Did you buy her that car?”
I pull the phone away from my ear, lean down, and hang it up. No need to listen to that shit anymore.
Lainie is still visibly upset. “I’m sorry, Keeton. I didn’t tell him. He….”
“He must have seen you or heard something. This is a small town, babe.”
“I’m so sorry, Keeton. Let me call one of my sisters to come get me. I don’t want you to have to deal with that at your place of business.” She picks up her purse and starts to step around me.
I quickly wrap my arms around her and pull her to me. She’s looking everywhere but at me. “Look at me, honey.” She shakes her head, so I place my finger under her chin and gently urge her to face me. Her eyes are shiny with tears. “That wasn’t your fault. That’s on him. He’s the one that interruptedyouat work. He’s the asshole here. Besides,” I swipe my finger over her pretty plump cheek, “I need for you to stay and help me out, Lainie. I’m over my head with this bookkeeping shit.”
She laughs even though she’s distressed. “True. You are in over your head.”
“I am. I need you by my side.” Every day.
Blinking, she looks up at me. “How did he know I was here?”
That’s a good question. “Would he follow you?”
“No. Why would he?” She pauses. “I didn’t notice anyone behind me on my way here.”
He could be tracking her phone. Oldest trick in the book. “Did he give you your phone?”
She looks down at her hand; the one holding her iPhone. “Yes. It’s the only thing he let me keep. He said he’d pay my bill for a year.” She looks at me again. “Why didn’t he just call my phone?”
“Who knows? Probably letting you know he knows where you are right now.” Nodding to her phone, I ask, “May I see it?” She hands it to me and I search her apps. Flipping through her home screens I come across one I recognize. I wonder if she does. “What’s this one?” I ask pointing to the icon.
“I don’t know. I think it was there when I got the phone.”
I hit the app and see a log-in screen appear. “You didn’t log in to this?”
“No. Why?”
I pull my own phone out and do a quick search bringing up the site that explains what she’s got on her phone. I hand it to her.
Scanning the page I found, she gasps. “Oh, my god, Keeton. This tracks my location, my text messages, and my Facebook page?” Reading a bit more her eyes double in size. “This thing can see my pictures and videos?” She looks up at me. “It can even track what I’m searching for on the web.” Her face morphs from fear and sadness to anger in seconds. “Are you trying to tell me that that weasel has been reading my text messages? Looking at my photos?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. When did he give you this phone?”
“About a week before I was served papers.”
“Could be a coincidence.”
