She zipped it shut, tugged her hood up, and pushed open the door.
The cold hit her like a slap.Rain soaked through her jacket in seconds.She pulled it tighter, head down, and started walking along the shoulder of the road.
Mud splashed up her jeans, her boots squelching with each step.The night pressed close, thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional flash of lightning in the distance.
She kept her ears open.Mara had always listened more than she spoke.Growing up, silence was the difference between staying invisible and getting hurt.
A truck passed after a while, its headlights sweeping over her before fading.She turned away, heart hammering, afraid the driver might stop.She couldn’t afford anyone’s kindness.Kindness got people curious, and curiosity got her caught.
Fifteen minutes later, a glow appeared ahead.A flickering neon sign through the rain.The Ridge Motel.Vacancy.
It looked like the kind of place where people didn’t ask questions.The paint peeled from the siding, the roof sagged in the middle, and a Coke machine stood by the door with an out of order sign curling off its front.To Mara, it was perfect.
She trudged to the office, dripping on the thin welcome mat.A woman with dark roots and too much eyeliner sat behind the counter.A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside her.
“Need a room?”the woman asked without looking up from the small TV behind the counter.
“One night,” Mara said, pulling a few crumpled bills from her pocket.“Cash.”
The woman’s eyes flicked to her face, lingered on the water dripping from her hair, then slid to the fake ID Mara pushed across the counter.Whatever she saw there was enough.
“Room six,” she said, voice flat.“Round back.No smoking, no noise.Checkout’s at 10:00.”
Mara nodded.“Thanks.”
The key was cold in her hand.She stepped back into the rain and followed the row of doors until she found number six.The lock stuck before giving way with a metallic click.Inside smelled like damp carpet and lemon cleaner.A single lamp lit the room in a weak yellow glow.
She shut the door, threw the bolt, and set the chain.Only then did she let herself breathe.
Her reflection caught in the mirror above the sink.Mara looked pale, gaunt, eyes rimmed in shadows.The girl staring back didn’t look like a biker’s daughter anymore.She looked like a ghost.
She pulled off her jacket, tossing it over the chair, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.The springs creaked beneath her weight.
Her stomach growled.She dug into her bag, found a squashed granola bar, and took slow bites, chewing until the knot in her throat eased enough to swallow.
The rain outside turned heavier, pounding the roof until it drowned out everything else.For the first time in days, she wasn’t moving.That stillness was both relief and terror.
She should’ve felt safe behind a locked door.Instead, the quiet made her skin crawl.Every sound felt sharper.The tick of the clock, the groan of the pipes, and the whisper of wind against the window.
She unzipped her bag again and pulled out the pocketknife, flipping the blade open with practiced ease.It wasn’t much, but it made her feel less helpless.
The sound of a motorcycle somewhere outside made her freeze.
It was faint, just a low rumble under the rain, but her body reacted before her mind caught up.Heart pounding, she crossed the room and peered through the gap in the curtains.
The parking lot was mostly empty.A single streetlight buzzed near the office, throwing pale light over puddles and cracked pavement.Nothing.
The sound faded.Probably just a local heading home.Still, she stayed by the window a moment longer, knife gripped tight, before forcing herself to step back.
“Paranoid,” she muttered, trying for humor.“Next thing you know, you’ll start naming your knife.”
Her laugh sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Mara set the blade within reach on the nightstand and pulled off her boots.Her feet ached, her socks soaked through.She rubbed at her calves, trying to coax warmth back into her legs.When that failed, she lay back against the pillow, staring up at the water-stained ceiling.
Mara kept her ears open, listening.She’d always listened ever since she was a child and had learned that being quiet was safer than being seen.
She turned, laying on her side, and stared at the wall until her eyes blurred.The paint was peeling, the pattern of cracks almost pretty in the half-light.She tried to focus on that.Anything but the memory of her father’s voice or the roar of the engines that haunted her every time she closed her eyes.
