James and I have been together for nine years. We’re raising two little kids—a seven-year-old daughter and a five-year-old son—so our days are a blur of homework negotiations, spilled snacks, and bedtime stories that somehow require “one more chapter.”

That’s why I hesitated when James begged for a dog. It wasn’t that I disliked dogs; it was that our home already felt like a lively daycare with a laundry basket attached.

He swore this time would be different.

“I’ll handle everything—food, training, walks. All of it.”

Eventually, I gave in. We adopted a shelter dog and named her Daisy. The kids fell in love instantly. To my surprise, I did too.

And even more surprising: James kept his promise. He took Daisy out like clockwork—morning, afternoon, and then a long walk at night. He looked genuinely happier, like the routine was doing something good for him.

• Morning walk before the school rush
• Afternoon loop to burn off energy
• Night walk that seemed to “reset” him

Then came the night Daisy slipped her leash.

We searched the neighborhood for nearly two hours, flashlights shaking in our hands as we called her name. The kids were scared and teary. When we finally found Daisy trembling under a porch, relief hit me so hard my knees went weak.

That was the moment I decided we needed a GPS collar—no debate, no delay.

At first, the tracker brought me peace. I could glance at my phone and know Daisy was safe, that she wasn’t disappearing into the dark again.

But before long, the “walks” started to feel… off.

James would say, “I’m just taking her out,” and then be gone for two—sometimes three—hours. Night after night. More and more often he didn’t return until close to midnight.

“She needs the exercise,” he’d say evenly. “And I like the quiet. It clears my head.”

I wanted to believe him. Still, something didn’t add up. Clearing your head doesn’t usually take three hours—especially not at 11 p.m. on a random Tuesday.

• The walks kept getting longer
• The timing kept getting later
• His explanations stayed calm—but vague

One night, I woke up and reached across the bed. His side was empty.

The house was completely still. The kids were asleep. And Daisy was gone too.

I checked the clock: 1:12 a.m.

My chest tightened as I opened the GPS app connected to Daisy’s collar. I told myself I was being paranoid—until the map loaded.

When I saw where he was really taking her, my stomach dropped.

Conclusion: Trust is built in small routines, and it can also start to unravel there. That night, staring at Daisy’s location on my phone, I realized I couldn’t ignore my instincts anymore—no matter how much I wanted the late-night walks to be innocent.