"Come," I command, slapping her ass again, and she explodes with her walls crushing me, dragging my release in endless ropes, filling her overflowing. We collapse, tangled in quilts, her head on my chest, breaths syncing in the afterglow. The night outside presses cold against the window, but here, heat lingers.
She sleeps fast, like rain stopping. I don’t.
The room is still warm with us. The window is a square of darker dark, the city humming under it. I rinse my mouth, button my shirt by feel, lace my boots without turning the lamp on. My jacket smells like smoke and cold air. It helps.
My phone is face down on the table. No names, just numbers that don’t call twice. I slide the safety off and lay the gun on my thigh. Not paranoia. Pattern.
The streetlight flickers, gives the alley a heartbeat. A stray cat noses a tipped can, skitters when a scooter ghosts by. Headlights drag along the far wall, slowly, like someone reading a line twice. I count. One. Pause. Two. Then nothing. I lean back, chair against the wall, and watch the slice of street like it’s a door someone forgot to close. If they come, they’ll come easy—late, careless, thinking the night does their work for them. People like that always do.
Behind me, she breathes the long, heavy way sleep makes you. The sheet whispers when she turns, a sound I feel in my teeth.I could go back. I could lay a hand on her hip and pretend the world is small enough to hold.
I stay where I am. The radiator ticks. A bottle cap on the floor glints and goes dull. Somewhere, a siren lifts and fades. The car that passed doesn’t come back. Another one does, slow again.
The mattress rustles. Her breath changes—lighter, questioning. I don’t look over. The glass holds my shadow, shoulders squared, collar closed, knuckles quiet around steel. In the dark behind me, Lila wakes. I sit in the chair by the window, dressed, eyes on the street, waiting for whoever thinks they can find us here.
19
LILA
Iwake to the smell of coffee. Not the faint kind that drifts from a mug, but the strong, honest scent that climbs the stairs like a promise. Morning light squares itself in the window frame, pale and clean. The knit throw slips from my hip when I sit up. The air is cool, but I don't feel it. The room still retains warmth from the night.
I draw a breath and let the memory surface, soft, slow, too near to dream. My hand finds the place where his had been, and for a moment, everything feels both near and impossibly distant. Birdsong splits the morning stillness. I glance at the clock and flinch. Five already. The bakery won’t open itself.
I pull on leggings and a sweater and pad down the hall. The wood creaks softly underfoot. The kitchen lights are on. The plywood over the front pane throws a dull rectangle across the floor. It looks ugly and necessary, a patch we’ll live with until after Christmas.
Matteo stands by the prep table, a mug cupped in one hand, sleeve rolled, watch face turned inward. Another man leansagainst the steel counter, a folded county map pinned under his palm. A ball cap hides his eyes. Stubble shadows his jaw. The delivery jacket gives him the shape of a man who’s hauled crates since he was nineteen. Only the muscle in his forearms hints he could lift a door and not wheeze. His voice is almost cheerful, if gravel can be called cheerful.
I ease back into the dim edge of the hallway, part shadow, part curiosity. For now, there’s no sweeter kind of thrill than hearing what a man like Matteo and the one built to guard him say when they think no one’s listening.
“Three bodies, I’m sure of,” the man in the baseball cap says, tapping the map. “SUV driver, his companion, the black coat, and one extra at Pine Crest, room eleven. He likes the blinds closed at noon.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor. This is how it begins—men in my kitchen, speaking in codes that turn scenes into plans. Matteo registers me without turning. The shift is subtle, a millimeter of attention that moves from the map to the doorway.
“Morning,” he offers, voice low.
I reach for the kettle like I belong here. I do. The mug warms my palms, and it steadies the part of me that wants to pace. I flick my eyes to the stranger.
“Nico,” Matteo introduces. “He delivers eggs when anyone asks why he is near your door.”
Nico lifts two fingers and touches his cap. “Ma’am.”
The courtesy lands like a small mercy. “You can drop the ma’am,” I murmur, throat tight.
“Lila, then,” he adjusts, accent northern, vowels neat.
Matteo clears his throat. “Report again.”
Nico’s finger moves. “First, the driver. Black mid-size. Cap low. He had a paper tag on top of a dirty plate, which he changed. He cleans his teeth in the car mirror like a habit. That’s when he idles long and pretends he doesn’t. He likes the gas station that sells worms. He watches your window when he rolls past. We tailed him to Pine Crest. Room eleven took him.”
“That motel on the spur,” I cut in, picturing the flickering sign that can never make up its mind which letters still work.
“Second,” he continues, “his companion in the SUV, the one in the black coat. There’s a woman, too.”
“A woman?” I frown.
“A woman,” Matteo says, filling my cup. “I noticed her the day she visited your bakery. She came in on the midday bus two days ago. She told Dorrie at the grocery that she was visiting her aunt on Mill Road, an old Mrs. Kiefer, the one who never leaves the house since her fall. She bought tea and a paper, nothing else. Later, she walked the square once and sat for a few minutes outside the post office, just watching. Yesterday, she came by the bakery with a paper cup she had never used.
“Petro saw her near the florist before she crossed toward the church hall.” Nico adds, “She’s driving a silver Accord with dealer plates. Her eyes are everywhere—windows, alleys, your upstairs, the motel sign. Looks like she’s tracing the town one loop at a time. We’ll get the number.”
