Chapter 4

That very afternoon, I went on a spree online.

I signed Tyler's phone number up for dozens of spam-heavy inquiry forms: plastic surgery consultations, sketchy payday loans, life insurance quotes, male infertility clinics, hair transplant centers, and local sperm donor registries.

You like playing dead, Tyler?

Let's see how much you enjoy fifty automated telemarketer calls an hour.

Sure enough, within forty-eight hours, Tyler cracked and called me.

"Chloe Evans, you psycho! Did you do this?!"

"My phone is blowing up with spam calls and scam texts every five seconds! I can't even use my damn phone!"

"I should have reported you harder last time! I'm going to report you for doxxing and privacy violations! I'll have the cops arrest you!"

I leaned back in my chair, feeling a sudden surge of satisfaction.

"Be my guest. Go right ahead."

"Report me a thousand times—the firm still won't fire me. Expose me? Let's see if the public rallies behind a deadbeat who stiffed the female lawyer who won him six hundred grand."

"As for the police? What proof do you have that I leaked your number? Maybe you clicked a shady link. Or maybe I made a typo while filling out a routine form. Oh dear, if that happened, I'm terribly sorry."

Tyler cursed up a storm, practically foaming at the mouth:

"Fine! You think you're clever? I'm changing my number tomorrow! Let's see what you do then!"

"Change it," I replied coolly.

He could change his number, but he couldn't change who he was.

"Go ahead and hide. Because starting this weekend, I'm going to make sure you can't show your face in your hometown ever again."

Friday evening, right after grabbing dinner, I jumped into my car and drove straight back to Tyler's town.

I rushed there because I had done my homework: tomorrow was the town's weekly Saturday morning farmers market.

Practically every resident in the county would be out on Main Street.

I glanced at the heavy box on my passenger seat. When you want to expose a fraud, the bigger the audience, the better.

By the time I pulled into town, it was nearly eleven at night. Aside from a 24-hour convenience mart and a local dive bar, the streets were pitch-black and deserted.

I parked near the convenience store, bought a bottle of water, and decided to ask the cashier about Tyler.

This store was the closest one to his apartment. I had asked the same clerk two weeks ago.

The middle-aged owner shook his head. "Haven't seen him in weeks, miss. Still gone, I reckon."

Disappointment sank into my chest.

I thanked him and stepped outside into the chilly night air. But as I turned toward my car, a figure caught my eye.