Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 19570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
“Here,” she says, handing me a glittering keychain. “It’s pepper spray.”
“For what?”
She shrugs. “You just never know these days. You don’t have a gun or any other weapon for protection, so…”
I sigh.
“I hate to end this so soon, but I’m really tired, Kylie,” I say, knowing I won’t be able to fake being okay for too much longer. “Raincheck for breakfast another day?”
“Oh, sure. Sure.” She smiles and signals for the waiter. “I should probably get back to my actual job before they realize I’m a bad employee.”
I laugh for the first time in weeks.
After paying for our food, she drives me back home, and I return to my bed.
That night, I try to sleep.
But something’s off.
I can feel it…
A faint sound begins to thread through the quiet—an irregular buzz, like interference from an old radio, soft but insistent. I freeze beneath my covers, holding my breath as it surges again, sharper this time.
It’s not coming from outside. Not the hallway. Not my phone.
I sit up and scan my room. The sound vanishes for a moment, then returns—higher-pitched now, tingling at the edge of my nerves like a mosquito I can’t swat away.
It pulses again.
Then… something inside my purse pulses in return.
I get up slowly, every movement deliberate. My heart is already pounding, but I try to ground myself. It’s probably nothing. Some app glitch. Maybe a forgotten portable charger losing power.
Except when I open the purse, I see the pink and coral keychain Kylie gave me weeks ago blinking. Faint white light. Irregular hum.
I fish it out and lay it on my desk, then dig out the second one—the one she gave me this morning. That one’s blinking, too. Syncing in rhythm.
Neither have buttons. No off switch. Just that pale flash and that quiet, almost living sound.
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 like this. 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 was surveillance.
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.
Am I the reason he got arrested?
When I finally turn on my phone, there are no new messages from Ryder.
Just Adele and Kylie…
Adele
I miss you, Miss Jane.
Please text me back…
I want you to hear me play this new piece.
Why did you leave ME without saying goodbye?
Kylie
I’m sure you’re still in bed, but call me whenever you’re up at ’em again.
Hey… You alright?
Random question: I think I may have given you some defective pepper spray canisters. Can you spray them outside to check when you can?