Something’s wrong.
I don't trust myself to Google this. Not when my mind is already spiraling into places I don’t want it to go.
Sliding both into a sunglasses case, I slip out of the house and drive my dad’s car to a run-down pawn shop two towns over. The guy behind the counter looks like he hasn't slept in days, but he perks up when I show him the case.
He picks up one of the keychains, turning it in his hands, eyebrows lifting slightly. “You want me to open it?”
“Please.”
He works with quiet precision, popping it apart with a small flat tool. As the pieces come undone, I see what’s inside—tiny wires, a circuit board, something that looks like a mic chip and a transmitter.
“Okay,” he says, dragging a lamp closer. “This isn’t just pepper spray. It’s a tracking device. High-end. Audio-capable, too.”
My mouth goes dry. “You sell these?”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Not ones likethis. This is FBI-grade. Government-level tech. Expensive. Not something you find on Amazon.”
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
He pulls a clunky, knockoff version from a drawer under the counter and places it beside mine for comparison. “This one’s what the average creep uses. Yours? Yours is the kind they use when they want to watch and listen without getting caught for a long time.”
My legs suddenly feel unsteady, like the floor beneath me has shifted.
I thank him, not sure how I get the words out, and I don’t remember the drive home. All I know is that I’m sitting at my desk again, staring down at the second device as I pry it open with shaking hands.
It’s the same. Wires. Battery. Microphone. No mistaking it now.
She told me it was pepper spray. Said it was nearly lethal. Said it was for my protection.
Told me to keep it close. To never let it out of my sight.
And I listened.
I kept it on me for weeks. Through every moment of my life with Ryder. Every conversation. Every touch. Every secret I thought was safe.
She’s been listening.
She’s been watching.
And she’s been doing it from the start.
I stare at the shattered pieces on my desk—shiny plastic and surgical precision—and all I feel is the cold shock of betrayal pressing down on my ribs like a weight I can’t lift.
This wasn’t protection. It wassurveillance.
End of Episode 3
Turnabout
EPISODE 4
Autumn
Idrop the keychains into the sink, one by one.
The water crashes down, violent and constant, like it’s trying to scrub the memory off me.
I don’t move. I just let the faucet scream louder than the questions I can’t shut off.
