Page 91 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“I am what I am.” I flick my phone awake. A small green dot slides toward the gate on the map. She wants space. She can have it inside a net I control.
Wesley tilts his head. “So we’re going after her?”
“No.” I don’t take my eyes off the drive. “We still need eyes in the house. If someone’s counting on her to leave, this is the window they’ll use.”
“You’re taking your truck? You can use mine?—”
“She’d spot me before I hit the street.” I pocket the phone. “I’m taking Chief’s jeep.”
“You think she won’t clock you anyway?”
“She won’t if I do my job.” I finally look at him. “And even if she does—better angry than missing. I’ll take the first over the second every time. Plus, she doesn’t know Chief’s jeep. It’s black, like half of them in the city. I’ll blend.”
Wesley shifts, the last of the grin fading. “You know she’ll be pissed.”
“She’ll be alive. That’s all I care about.” I text Chief for her keys, and like a phantom, she shows up not ten seconds later.
“Following your girl?” she asks as she passes the keys to me.
I nod once. “Don’t give me shit about it, okay?”
“I’m more annoyed that you’re not already on her six.”
I hold up my phone to display the tracker screen.
“I knew you were smarter than that.” That’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever gotten out of her. She resumes her post, disappearing into the trees at the edge of the property.
I turn to Wes. “You know the drill. Chief’s got the outside. Rotate the guards on the west hedge. The neighbor’s landscapers like to leave a gap at the corner. I want that patched.”
“Already done,” he says, automatic. He studies my face for a beat. “You really think she’s walking into something?”
“Doesn’t matter. I want eyes-on.” I keep my voice even.
He nods once, all business again. “We’ll keep the lights on.”
I circle the jeep, check what Chief left in the back—med kit, field glasses, a coil of line, bottled water that tastes like plastic but keeps you alive, a poncho rolled tight with a rubber band I don’t trust. Good enough. I slide into the driver’s seat. The vinyl has a late-day warmth that seeps through my shirt.
Wesley rests his hand on the doorframe. “She’ll find out. Be prepared for the fallout.”
“She might. But if nothing goes wrong, I can keep my distance, and she never needs to know.” I thumb the ignition, the engine coughing into a steady idle. The map on my phone redraws as the jeep’s Bluetooth grabs it—her dot already beyond the mouth of the neighborhood, sliding toward the highway.
He leans down, lower voice. “You’re sure you don’t want backup? Two cars are harder to spot if they look like traffic.”
“Two cars double the chance she sees us.” I glance past him to the house. Through the glass I catch a sliver of Bailey’s hallway, the stripe of late-afternoon light laid across the floor like a blade. “Keep Huck inside. He’s bleeding again even if he won’t admit it. If something comes to the door, I want him fresh.”
Wesley smirks without humor. “He’ll love that.” He taps the roof twice, the old signal we never unlearned. “Bring her back safe.”
“That’s the plan.”
I back out into the slanting light. The driveway looks longer in the late hour, the shadows from the palms banding across it like stripes. At the street I pause, watching the neighborhood exhale into evening—dog walkers, sprinklers ticking, a kid on a scooter dragging his heel for sparks. Normal. A cover for everything uglier.
I pull out and keep it easy until I’m clear of the blocks that know our plates. Then I pick up speed, staying two, three turns behind the green dot, never crowding it, never letting it get so far I can’t correct if she does something unexpected. The guilt rides shotgun, quiet and pointed. I let it. I earned it.
I told her we’d follow her lead. I am. She’s leading me right now.
She can be angry with me later. She can call me a liar to my face and I’ll take it standing still. What I won’t do is watch a headline bloom on my phone with her name in it and wonder if I could have stopped it by swallowing my pride and breaking the rules we’re pretending to live by.
Rules get people killed every day.
