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Her Story from last night is gone.

I don’t like the empty circle around her profile picture.

This is fucking ridiculous.

Callie doesn't owe me updates on her day.

She doesn't even know it’s me watching them. At least, I don't think she does.

I hesitate, then Google it.

Can someone see if you watch their Instagram Story?

The answer appears immediately.

Yes.

I go completely still.

“What?”

I read it again.

Instagram allows users to see a list of accounts that viewed their Story.

I stare at the screen.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Every Story?

I search again.

Same fucking answer.

I think about all the Stories I’ve watched. Every fucking one.

I close my eyes. Eleven fucking years without getting caught, and Instagram just took me down in less than forty-eight hours.

Even though she thinks I’m James Miller.

Jesus Christ.

She’s probably wondering who the fuck James Miller is. Or worse, maybe she knows it’s me.

No. She can’t know. Nothing leads back to me. I made sure of it.

My shoulders tighten. If Callie noticed James Miller watching everything she posted, why did she post that last Story?

My pulse kicks.

Chasing.

Beck said she was looking for me. Asking people around town. Showing them my picture. That old woman was helping her find her boyfriend.

I stare at the words again.

Sometimes you have to stop chasing things...