I did not know exactly what model it was.
I knew what it was for.
Location tracking.
I sat on the floor.
The device remained half concealed inside the bag.
For several minutes, I did nothing.
Then another memory returned.
Rebecca holding that duffel months earlier.
You still use this?
Keep it.
The office reorganization.
The location questions.
The suspicion about Amanda.
Suddenly the end of my marriage became connected to something that had started before I knew the marriage was ending.
I did not remove the device completely.
Helen had said document.
I photographed the bag.
The seam.
The device exactly where it was.
Then I called the Riverside police.
Saying the words aloud felt ridiculous.
“I think my estranged wife has been tracking me.”
The officer who arrived was named Daniel Ruiz.
Early forties.
Calm.
He did not laugh.
That mattered.
He looked at the messages.
Envelope.
Photographs.
Then the bag.
“Don’t power anything off yet.”
“I haven’t touched it beyond opening the seam.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I told him about the sedan.
The shaving message.
The voicemail.
The old clock.
He asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Are you afraid she’ll hurt you?”
“No.”
Then:
“I don’t know.”
Ruiz nodded.
“That’s more useful.”
“I’ve never seen her violent.”
“Threats?”
“No.”
“History of showing up unexpectedly?”
“Not before I left.”
“Controlling behavior?”
I almost said no.
Then stopped.
Location sharing.
Messages.
Tablet.
Questions.
“Maybe.”
Ruiz waited.
I hated that word.
Maybe.
It allowed years of small things to remain harmless.
“She monitored where I was.”
“How often?”
“More near the end.”
“Did you agree?”
“It was shared location.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The question felt familiar.
Different from Rebecca’s version.
He was actually asking.
“At first, yes.”
“And later?”
“No.”
I looked at the duffel.
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“No.”
Ruiz documented everything.
He took the device as evidence after photographing its placement.
He advised me to stay somewhere else for the night if possible.
George overheard enough to become furious.
“Nobody’s running you out of a place you pay rent for.”
“George.”
“I’ve got a shotgun.”
“That is exactly the opposite of helpful.”
“It’s legal.”
“So is not mentioning it to the police officer.”
Ruiz almost smiled.
I stayed with George downstairs that night anyway.
His living quarters were behind the print shop.
He slept in a recliner.
I took the couch.
At 2:00 a.m., I was still awake.
George spoke into the darkness.
“You know what bothers you?”
I stared at the ceiling.
“A long list.”
“You thought leaving meant she let go.”
I turned.
George’s eyes remained closed.