Chapter 8 What He's Hiding

The first thing I notice is that the apartment is too quiet.

Mason's not on the floor where he crashed. The blanket I gave him is tossed aside, twisted into a knot like he left in a hurry.

The second thing I notice is that my backpack is open.

I always zip it closed. Always tuck it under the couch cushion. It's habit. Survival muscle memory.

Now it's half unzipped, like someone went digging.

My journal's still there. So is the emergency cash-what little's left. Nothing obvious is gone.

But something's off.

It's like the air has shifted. Just a little.

Just enough to make me sweat.

Mason returns two hours later, a sandwich in hand like nothing happened. He tosses it to me without meeting my eyes.

"Figured you'd be hungry."

I catch it, still warm.

"Where'd you go?" I ask.

"Out."

"That's not an answer."

He shrugs. "Just needed air. You were twitching in your sleep."

He says it like a joke, but his smile doesn't land.

I press. "Did you touch my stuff?"

Now he looks at me. "Seriously?"

I nod. Don't blink.

"No. Why would I?" he says. But there's a flicker. Something behind his voice. Not quite guilt, but not clean either.

I drop it. For now.

But I don't eat the sandwich.

That night, I wait until he's asleep.

I move quiet. Like I'm back in the construction yard, heart pounding like a drumline in my ears.

I go for his backpack.

The zipper sticks, then slides open. Inside: clothes. A charger. A cracked lighter. Some energy bars.

And at the bottom-wrapped in a pair of socks-a phone.

Not his phone. Too new. No cracks. No lock screen photo. Just a black rectangle.

I press the power button.

It's dead.

I stare at it for a long time, then slide it back exactly where I found it.

What kind of stray carries a burner phone that isn't theirs?

I lie awake, my brain spinning with possibilities.

Stolen?

Tracked?

Or worse-did someone give it to him? Is he on the run from more than just the cold?

The next morning, Mason's already up. He doesn't say anything. Neither do I.

But I watch him leave.

And this time, I follow.

Rule #10: Everyone's hiding something.

The real question is whether it's dangerous.

And whether it's aimed at you.