“Why don’t you track his car?” she said, almost too casually.
“What? you mean… spy on him?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Not spy, exactly,” she replied. “Just… check. If there’s nothing to worry about, you’ll know. And if there is…”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. I knew what she meant.
Reluctantly, I agreed. I installed a GPS tracker on his car, feeling both guilty and anxious. For the next week, I watched his movements. Everything seemed normal at first – just work, home, work again. But then, one night, he called me.
“Hey, I have to stay late at the office,” he said. “Just tying up some loose ends before the holidays.”
I didn’t think much of it until I glanced at the tracker. His car wasn’t at the office. It was moving… away from it, toward a part of town we rarely visited.