Story code: ST-000962
Part 2: The Name on His Screen
I asked Derek one question at the gate and he refused to answer it three different ways. He had Juniper’s microchip record on his phone, my dog was shaking against my leg, and the only name I had managed to catch on that screen was Tessa’s. If that was really the path, then this wasn’t just Derek showing up where he shouldn’t. Somebody close enough to know my life had helped him reach into it. “Show me that again,” I said. Derek locked his phone screen immediately and slid it back into his pocket. “No. You already saw enough.” “Enough for what?” Marisol asked. Her voice was calm, but she stayed planted between the two gates, one hand still on the latch. That gate had gone from a normal park entrance to a line nobody was treating casually anymore. A man with a shepherd mix approached from the sidewalk, took one look at us, and waited by the fence instead of squeezing through. I kept my hand on Juniper’s collar under her chin. She was not pulling now. She was watching Derek and leaning into my leg so hard I could feel each breath. “He says he has clinic records,” I said. “He won’t say how he got them.” Derek looked at Marisol, not me. “I asked for information about my dog.” “Your dog?” I said. “You haven’t taken her to an appointment in over a year.” He shrugged again. “That doesn’t erase history.” “History isn’t permission,” I said. He opened his mouth, shut it, then switched tracks. “This is exactly why I came in person. If I text you, you ignore it. If I call, you act like I’m harassing you. So here I am, with proof, and you’re still doing this performance.” I heard the word proof again and this time I went straight at the gap instead of the insult. “Tell me what you asked for,” I said. “Exact words. Did you ask for vaccine dates? Microchip registration? Ownership? Did you ask the clinic to send you my dog’s file?” He smiled without showing teeth. “You suddenly care about procedure?” “Answer her,” Marisol said. That was the first time anyone else had said it to him, and he glanced at her fast like he’d forgotten she was there to judge the shape of what he was doing. “I asked a friend to confirm something,” he said. There it was, but still sideways. “Which friend?” I asked. “Why does that matter?” “Because my dog’s information is not community property.” The couple by the bench had stopped pretending not to listen. The woman folded her arms. The man kept his hand on his dog’s harness and looked at Derek’s pocket where the phone had disappeared. Derek pulled the phone back out, but this time he didn’t hand it over or angle it near me. He held it against his own chest. “You want to make me sound shady because that’s easier than admitting you cut me out.” “Then unlock it,” I said. “If it’s clean, unlock it and let me see what you’re calling proof.” He didn’t. Instead he tapped the side button and blacked out the screen again. Marisol let out a small breath through her nose. “If you have something legitimate, why won’t you just show her?” “Because she’ll grab my phone.” “I don’t need your phone,” I said. “I need to know why Tessa Morgan’s name was on Juniper’s clinic record.” That landed. Derek’s face changed for half a second, not dramatic, just a pause in the rhythm he’d been using. He recovered too fast to call it anything but visible. “You saw one name and built a whole conspiracy,” he said. “So it was Tessa,” I said. He looked away toward the parking strip. That was answer enough for me. Tessa wasn’t some distant friend-of-a-friend. She was somebody I had known long enough to trust around the plain, boring parts of my life. She had come by my house for coffee. She knew Juniper by name. More than that, she worked near the clinic. Not as a vet, not in an exam room, but close enough that the connection now made sick sense. I pulled out my phone with my free hand and called the clinic while Derek was still standing there. I didn’t step away. I wanted every word on speaker where he had chosen to make this public. The first call rang too long. The second line picked up with the front-desk greeting, and when I gave Juniper’s name and said, “I need to know whether anyone accessed or released her microchip information without my authorization,” the woman on the line went careful immediately. “One moment,” she said, and transferred me. Noah Kim came on in the clipped, procedural tone people use when they are trying to be exact. I gave my name, Juniper’s name, and the microchip number I knew by memory. Derek went still enough that even Juniper noticed; her ears pinned back and she shifted closer. Noah did not speculate. He did not fill silence. He asked me to confirm my callback number, then said, “I can tell you there is an access note on the account from this week, but I need to verify what was viewed and by whom before I say more.” “Was it authorized by me?” I asked. A pause. Keyboard sounds. Then: “I do not see owner authorization attached to that note.” Nobody in the holding area said anything after that. Derek cut in fast. “He doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Put that off speaker.” I ignored him. “Can you tell me whether the access came from someone at your clinic?” Another pause. More keys. “The note references a staff-side inquiry,” Noah said carefully, “and the initials attached do not match a veterinarian. If you want the full access history, I can escalate this to the practice manager immediately.” I looked straight at Derek. “Do it,” I said. Then Noah added one more sentence,.