“No, but there’s concrete between the rooms. Bathroom walls are the only solid ones in places like this.” He was already pulling a small device from his pocket—a phone, but it was unlike any I’d ever seen before. It looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. As he dialed, he yanked his jeans up properly and fastened them.
Sophia.
The thought stole my breath, and I looked back at the bathroom door. Sophia was at school. With Beth Morris. Beth with the same blank stare. The same mechanical movements. The same...emptiness behind her eyes.
“Sophia,” I said, grabbing Trent’s arm so hard my fingers dug in like claws. I was only dully aware he was bleeding, and his blood was now all over my hands. “We have to get to her. Now.”
“Working on it.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Grim, we’ve got a situation. Live fire. Local under control, showing aggression. Backup needed at location.” He gave coordinates, then listened, his face hardening. “No, don’t send a chopper—too visible. We need to extract without—” Another pause. “Copy that. We’ll move to position alpha and wait.”
“We’re not waiting. Sophia is with one of them!” I looked around the small bathroom, desperate for a way out. The tiny window above the shower was our only option. But I couldn’tclimb through a window in just a towel. “My clothes. I need my clothes.”
Trent lowered the phone, his gaze meeting mine. “One of who?”
“The people like Carol. Beth Morris, her teacher. They’ve all got the same look—blank eyes, blue shirt and khakis, speaking in that flat voice. Beth had her hand on Sophia’s shoulder this morning, and she was looking at her like...” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The memory of Beth’s fingers curling into my daughter’s small shoulder made me want to vomit.
Understanding and alarm flashed across Trent’s face. “When did Beth start acting differently?”
“This morning. She’s never been like that before.” My hands trembled as I clutched the towel tighter. “The others, too—it started yesterday for some of them, I think. Dutch said so.”
Trent cursed under his breath and glanced at the small window. “We need to move. Now. Before reinforcements arrive.”
“I can’t go anywhere like this.” I gestured at the towel. “My clothes are out there.”
He peered through the gap between the door and frame, checking the main room. The gunfire had stopped. Silence pressed in from outside, somehow worse than the shooting.
“She’s reloading or repositioning,” he said quietly. “We’ve got maybe thirty seconds.” He looked back at me. “Where are your clothes?”
“Jeans near the bed. Shirt... I don’t know. Somewhere on the floor.”
“Stay here.” He started to ease the door open.
“No.” I grabbed his arm. “We go together. I’m not letting you?—“
“Evelyn—“
“Together,” I said firmly. “You need clothes, too. I’ll grab mine. You grab yours and whatever weapons you have.”
He studied my face for a beat, then nodded. “Fast. Keep low.”
He moved away from the door and opened it just enough for us to slip through. The motel room looked like a war zone—glass everywhere, holes punched in the walls, the mattress torn open. Afternoon light streamed through the shattered window, illuminating dust particles floating in the air.
My jeans lay crumpled near the foot of the bed. I spotted my shirt draped over the chair by the table, my bra on the floor near the nightstand. Everything was within ten feet, but it felt like miles with that broken window gaping open.
Trent’s duffle sat near the closet, his tactical vest draped over the chair.
Trent moved to the side of the window, back pressed against the wall, gun raised. He checked the parking lot with quick glances. “She’s moved. Can’t see her. Go.”
I dropped the towel and ran, bent low, glass crunching under my bare feet. Pain lanced through my soles, but I ignored it, grabbing my jeans first. I yanked them on without bothering to button them, then lunged for my bra.
A shadow moved outside the window.
“Down!” Trent barked.
I hit the floor as another shot cracked through the air, the bullet punching into the wall where I’d been standing. My heart slammed against my ribs. I army-crawled toward my shirt, stretching my arm out.
“She’s circling around,” Trent said, still watching. “Trying to get a better angle.” He fired twice out the window—keeping Carol’s head down—then pivoted and grabbed his vest, slinging it over his bare torso in one motion. The straps hung loose.
My fingers closed around the fabric of my shirt. I pulled it to me and shoved my arms through the sleeves, not bothering with the buttons yet. No time for my bra. I left it where it lay.
