Chapter 3
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked concrete of the farmer’s market as Officer Martinez pushed his way through the dwindling crowd of onlookers. A pair of city patrol officers had finally arrived, their yellow caution tape unspooling with a sharp, synthetic rattle that made Toby whimper in Clara’s arms. David stood quietly beside Clara, shielding her and the baby from the prying eyes of smartphone-wielding teenagers and nosy neighbors.
Officer Martinez clicked his pen against his leather notebook, casting a suspicious glance from Clara’s maroon cardigan down to the smoking gadget. "Alright, let's start from the top. Whose property is this?"
"It's not mine," Clara said immediately, her voice firm and resolute. "I've never seen that device in my life. I packed this bag this morning with diapers, formula, wipes, and a change of clothes for Toby. That metal tube thing was buried right at the bottom, underneath the spare onesies."
Officer Martinez raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. People rarely admitted ownership of dangerous contraband, but blaming a phantom packer was an old excuse. "Ma'am, bags don't pack themselves. You're telling me someone slipped a specialized lithium-ion telemetry device into your baby's stroller while you were shopping?"
"She's telling the truth," David interrupted, stepping forward to bridge the gap between Clara and the police officer. David pulled out a leather wallet, flashing a worn identification card before slipping it away just as quickly. "I watched her walk past my line of sight for twenty minutes before the dog attacked. She was completely focused on the baby. She didn't drop anything in that bag, and nobody reached into it while she was walking."
Officer Martinez squinted at David, recognizing the subtle authority in the stranger's posture. "And you are?"
"David Miller. Local contractor," David lied smoothly, though Clara noticed the slight hesitation in his cadence. "I just happened to be in the right place with a broom."
"Right. Well, Mr. Miller, Mr. Vance—is there a husband in the picture who might have packed this?" Martinez asked, crouching down to inspect the melted plastic using the tip of his pen.
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Clara felt a hot flush of anger mix with her lingering fear. "My husband, Mark, travels for work. He's currently in Chicago auditing a manufacturing plant. And even if he were here, Mark wouldn't know the first thing about military-grade tracking electronics."
Martinez stood up, sighing as he radioed for a hazardous materials disposal pouch. "Well, whether you know how it got there or not, someone wanted to track you, Clara. Or worse, someone wanted to burn your stroller down to the frame."
