Chapter 4

The Fitbit was right there on his wrist.

Not lost. Not sitting in some gym's lost-and-found bin, waiting for a stranger to claim it. Right there in Brielle's Story, strapped to a man's forearm, black band against sun-browned skin, the small rectangular face I'd picked out myself at the Best Buy on Lamar because he'd mentioned once, offhand, that he wanted to track his sleep better.

Three months ago he'd told me it was gone. Shrugged, said someone probably grabbed it off the locker room bench. I'd said that's so annoying, and he'd said yeah, and we'd moved on to…