Military records were a dead end, which doesn’t surprise me.
Locked up tighter than Fort Knox, full of official wording and apologetic emails and some version of we can’t disclose that information repeated over and over again until I wanted to scream.
Good thing I don’t rely on polite.
I huff out a dry laugh, and glance at the phone mounted on the dash.
“Thank you, internet,” I mutter.
Turns out having a couple hundred thousand followers—and a handful of die-hard fans who live for chaos, justice, and a challenge—comes in handy.
Especially when some of those fans just happen to be, let’s say creatively gifted in the hacking department.
I didn’t ask too many questions.
I just accepted the coordinates.
Because I need this done.
Need him to sign those papers.
My chest tightens at the thought.
According to law, Benji Gunner is my husband.
I let out a slow breath through my nose and shake my head.
“Apparently,” I murmur.
Because that’s the kicker, isn’t it?
I built an entire life over the past three years—out of nothing, from the literal back of my converted van—and somehow, legally speaking, I still belong to the man who shattered me.
Life’s funny like that.
Or cruel.
Probably both.
I glance around the inside of my van—the soft rust-colored blankets folded over the bench seat, the tiny kitchenette I installed with help from a retired carpenter in Oregon, the camera rig mounted by the dash, the fairy lights I never bothered taking down because they make even Walmart parking lots feel a little less lonely.
Home.
My home.
It didn’t start out that way.
At first, it was just survival.
No job. No money. No plan.
No husband.
No real family to fall back on.
Just a broken heart and a desperate need to get as far away from that empty military housing unit as possible before I drowned in it.
So I drove.
