…screenshot. Only, it clearly wasn’t meant for me. It was a text thread between him and Chloe, the very same “best friend” who had set us up.
My stomach plummeted as I read his message: Dinner went flawlessly. She totally bought the ‘perfect gentleman’ routine. I slipped the tracker into her purse when I reached over to grab the check. When do we initiate phase two?
I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice. Chloe’s reply, time-stamped just minutes before he accidentally forwarded the screenshot to me, made it even worse: Perfect. Keep monitoring her location. The life insurance policy goes into effect on Friday. We make it look like an accident this weekend.
I dropped my phone. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely reach over to unzip my leather handbag. I dumped the contents onto my kitchen island—lipstick, keys, wallet, compact mirror. Frantic, I tore through the silk lining of the bag, running my fingers along the seams.
There it was. A tiny, black, magnetic GPS tag tucked deep inside a hidden pocket.
The “perfect date” wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was a tactical maneuver. Chloe had introduced me to him knowing I was vulnerable, knowing I had just finalized my wealthy grandfather’s estate, and knowing exactly what kind of man I’d fall for. He didn’t insist on paying the bill because he was chivalrous; he did it so I wouldn’t open my purse and catch him planting the device.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a new text from him.
Oops, ignore that last message! Sent to the wrong person. Had a great time last night, can’t wait to see you again!
A second later, three dots appeared at the bottom of the screen. He was typing again. He realized what he had just done.
I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t change my clothes. I grabbed my car keys, left the tracker sitting right next to my phone on the kitchen counter, and bolted out the back door. I had to get to the police before the “perfect gentleman” decided Friday was too far away.
