I shut my eyes, irritation flaring. “I broke down and a guy stopped. My truck needed a tow. I’m fine.”
A breath huffs out. “Jesus H…what’s his name.”
Cal doesn’t ask questions. He states them, flat and unequivocal. I hesitate. “Shiloh. I don’t know his last name. He just stopped to help.”
I feel his sigh more than hear it. There’s another beat, too quiet. Too sharp.
“Don’t go anywhere alone at night,” Cal says.
I bristle. “I’m not twelve.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not. Which means you’ll do something stupid and call it adulting.”
My jaw tightens. “Dammit, Cal, why are you like this?”
“Because I’ve buried enough people who thought they were in complete control of shit they didn’t know anything about.”
I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “I didn’t call to ask for permission.”
“I know,” he says. And there it is—something edged under the calm. “But I’m still telling you to get your ass back here.”
“I’m not coming back. Not yet, anyway. Not until I get some answers.”
A low, frustratedfucksounds. Then, even quieter, “Just…be careful who you talk to.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t know the men down there,” he says, and it’s the first time his control slips enough for something like anger to show. “And you don’t know what you’re walking back into.”
“And I take it you do? Maybe you should have told me—” I break off, biting my cheek. Cal used to work for my father, part of the necessary personal security that followed a very wealthy man. After he managed to gain custody of me in the wake of my family’s murder, he never wanted to talk about any of the demons that haunted either of us. That’s not his fault.
I get it. I don’t want to sit down and have a chat about it, either.
I just want answers.
“I’m not a kid,” I repeat, but it sounds thinner now.
“No,” he says. “You’re my family.”
The words hit wrong—too raw, too possessive. Like he heard himself say it and hates it. Tears spring to my eyes, and I squeeze my eyelids shut, willing them back. Neither of us expresses affection easily or gracefully. This is the closest it comes to Cal telling me he loves me.
He exhales once, controlled again. “Text me when you’re inside somewhere with a lock.”
“I’m not going to be reporting in, Cal.”
“You damn sure will,” he says, and it’s not a threat. It’s certainty. “Or I’ll come get you.”
My pulse kicks. “You don’t even know where I?—”
“And turn your fucking location back on.” The call ends.
I stare at the dark screen until my reflection looks back at me like a stranger, and I realize something I don’t want to admit.
Cal wasn’t guessing. He was scared.
I turn my location back on.
And then, just for good measure, I dig down into the bottom of my bag, scouting among the crumbs, spare M&Ms, ink pens, and tampons, until I find the tiny round disc that’s been in there for I don’t know how long…an AirTag Cal slipped in at some point and probably doesn’t even know I’m aware of.
