I'm halfway to my bike when something catches my attention.
A truck.
Dark blue Chevy Silverado, parked on the side of the main road.
Not in the truck stop parking lot where it should be.
Not in the clinic lot.
Just... sitting there on the shoulder, engine running.
Someone's in the driver's seat.
My instincts kick in immediately.
I stop, studying the truck from a distance.
Newer vehicle. Aftermarket chrome. Tinted windows. Out of state plates, though I can't make out which state from here.
And it's positioned with a direct line of sight to the clinic entrance.
Why park on the side of the road when there's a truck stop right there?
Parking, bathrooms, coffee, food.
No reason to sit on the shoulder unless...
Unless you're watching something.
I change direction, walking toward the truck instead of my bike.
Casual, like I'm just crossing the road to the diner.
But I'm watching.
Noting details.
The way the driver's silhouette shifts. The way they seem to notice me approaching.
I'm about fifty feet away when the truck suddenly starts moving.
Pulls onto the road fast, tires kicking up gravel.
Drives away heading south. Toward Houston.
I memorize what I can—partial plate number, vehicle description, the aftermarket modifications. Then I pull out my phone and type it all into my notes.
Someone was watching Grace's clinic.
And they ran the second they realized I noticed them.
That's not random.
The question is: who? And why?
I head back to the clinic, my jaw tight.
Grace is with a client, so I find Kyle in the barn.
