Cleaner.
A little older around the eyes.
But more like the man from years before.
I showered.
Dressed.
Made coffee.
I had not left the building.
Nobody in Riverside had seen me.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
You shaved.
Everything inside me stopped.
I read it.
Again.
Again.
My first reaction was to look toward the window.
Curtains closed.
I moved them slightly.
Main Street.
Delivery truck.
Two parked cars.
No Lexus.
My second reaction was absurd.
I touched my face.
As though perhaps shaving had somehow sent a notification.
Then fear arrived.
Not movie fear.
No dramatic music.
A tightening beneath the ribs.
A sudden awareness of locks.
Windows.
Stairwell.
The fact that someone knew something they could only know by seeing me.
I locked the door.
Then I took my phone and checked everything I knew how to check.
Location settings.
Apps.
Shared accounts.
Bluetooth devices.
Nothing obvious.
I called Helen.
She listened.
“Screenshot it.”
I did.
“Do not respond.”
“Okay.”
“Any chance somebody saw you through a window?”
“Curtains were closed.”
“Security camera?”
“George has one downstairs, not up here.”
“Rebecca ever have access to your current phone?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“We were married.”
“That answer is broader than I’d like.”
“She knew the passcode.”
“Take the phone to your carrier. Have them check the account. And Owen?”
“Yes?”
“Document the sedan.”
“I don’t have a plate.”
“Document date and time anyway.”
I ended the call.
Then I looked at the duffel.
It sat at the foot of the bed.
For no logical reason, it suddenly bothered me.
That bag had been with me from the house to the motel.
From motel to Riverside.
I emptied it.
Shirts.
Socks.
Chargers.
A paperback.
Notebook.
Loose change.
Receipts.
Nothing.
I turned it upside down.
Shook it.
Something made a faint sound.
Not much.
A soft tap.
I checked the exterior pockets.
Empty.
Then the lining.
Near the inner seam, the fabric felt thicker.
I pressed.
Something hard beneath it.
My pulse accelerated.
The stitching along four inches of seam looked newer than the rest.
Darker thread.
Smaller stitches.
Rebecca sewed.
Not professionally.
But she repaired clothes.
Buttons.
Curtains.
Costumes for her niece.
I pulled gently at the loose edge.
The fabric opened enough for something black to become visible beneath the lining.
Small.
Electronic.