I touched the rough skin of my collarbone, reminding myself of why we were doing this.

We left the office and walked down to the parking garage.

The Miami heat hit us like a physical wall as soon as we exited the air-conditioned lobby.

The air was humid, smelling of hot asphalt and salt water from the nearby bay.

Marisol unlocked her sedan, and we got inside.

She started the engine, turned the air conditioning to maximum, and pulled out into the afternoon traffic.

I kept my phone open on my lap, watching the green dot.

It remained stationary at the apartment complex.

“He is still there,” I said.

“He probably thinks he is safe,” Marisol said, keeping her eyes on the road. “He thinks you are too afraid to look for him.”

“He always thought I was weak,” I said.

“Abusers usually mistake patience for weakness,” she said.

We drove north on Interstate 95, the traffic moving in a sluggish crawl.

Every minute felt like an hour.

I watched the green dot pulse on the screen, terrified that it would suddenly vanish.