The man chuckled like she’d told a great joke. He poured her whiskey with a smile.
An eerie sound reached them from the desert. It was a faint, highSHRIEKlike the cry of an owl, but judging by the volume, it sounded like a larger owl than one Ethan had ever seen. His eyes drifted to the cafe’s windows, to the endless dark past the motel’s lights.
He said to Thomas, “Y’all have some big birds out this way?”
The man unscrewed a glass bottle to pour water into Kyla’s drink.“We have some unusual wildlife in this corner of the desert. Some specimens you won’t find anywhere else.”
From the kitchen there came another great clatter of dishes. His eyes following the sound, Ethan saw that the teenage girl was watching him again.
“My name’s Penelope,” she said. “My sister says it’ll save time if you know that.”
Ethan looked around the cafe. He was almost tempted to look under the booths, behind the bar. “Where’s your sister?”
Penelope said, “I’ve been trying to figure that out all night.”
KYLA
A few minutes before seven forty-five, the bell above the door chimed, and Fernanda stepped inside, looking wan and ill at ease, totally unlike her usual poised self. She settled into a booth next to Kyla, wincing as the gun tucked in her waistband bit into her back.
“Sorry,” she said. “Today has been… difficult on my stomach.”
“Can’t blame you.”
Fernanda glanced around the room—at the boys in the next booth over, at Penelope sitting alone and staring into space—and murmured to Kyla, “Sarah has not come yet?”
“No.”
Instead, at 7:52, the bell chimed again. The door didn’t open so much as it crashed into the cafe, snapping everyone to attention. Kyla and Fernanda both fumbled for their guns, but if they’d been in any real danger, they’d already be dead.
Stan Holiday was inside, red and angry and ready to crack heads.
And he had a massive Desert Eagle magnum riding on his hip.
Stan looked worse than he had a few hours ago, when Kyla had watched through her curtains as the man led Penelope into room 7. Sometime between six o’clock and now, Stanley had gotten into some kind of fight. His lip was busted and barely scabbed over, his jaw swollen and starting to bruise.
Who the hell had worked him over like that?
Kyla sat very still, as if maybe, just maybe, Frank’s right-hand man wouldn’t notice her if she made herself as inconspicuous as possible.
It didn’t work, of course. Stanley looked right at her—right at Kyla and Fernanda both—and then just kept on walking like they were the least of his concerns. Hardly seemed to register them. Hardly seemed to care. He made his way to Penelope’s booth, thumped the table, and said, “Get up. You’re coming back to the room.”
“Back?” the girl said.
“To the room. Now.”
“Why?”
“To keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Stanley hesitated, just a moment. “That bastard’s here. He cut our tires.”
Thatgot everyone in the cafe sitting up a little straighter.
“Who did?” Penelope said.
“Ryan. Ryan Fucking Phan.”
