But Tessa had learned better. She'd learned what police saw when they looked at women like her—not victims, not people deserving protection, but problems. Complications. Women whose life choices made them less credible, less sympathetic, less worthy of the benefit of the doubt.
She had a record, minor as it was. Solicitation from six years ago when she'd been younger and less careful. That alone would color everything the police thought about her testimony. Add in fleeing a crime scene, refusing to identify herself to the 911 dispatcher, hiding out while they searched for her—she'd made herself look guilty of something even though she hadn't done anything wrong.
And if they found out about her theory—that Victor had been killed by a jealous woman who might now be after Tessa—would they take it seriously? Or would they dismiss it as the paranoid fantasy of a sex worker trying to deflect blame?
Tessa pulled the curtain back an inch farther, scanning the parking lot. A pickup truck with a broken taillight. A sedan that had been there when she arrived. An RV that looked like it hadn't moved in weeks. No sign of Maya's blue Honda.
No sign of anyone watching the motel, either.
But would she even notice if someone was? Tessa's experience with surveillance was limited to bad movies and her own imagination. Someone could be out there right now, watching, waiting for the right moment.
She let the curtain fall and returned to pacing.
Maybe she should have gone to the police despite everything. At least in custody, she'd be safe from whoever had killed Victor. They'd question her, certainly. Probably arrest her for fleeing the scene. But she'd be alive and under protection while they figured out who the real killer was.
Except they already thought they knew who the killer was. Tessa had seen the news this morning on the motel room's ancient television—Thomas Hatathli charged with three murders, the police chief talking about environmental extremists and accomplices. They weren't looking for a jealous woman. They were building a case around activism and revenge.
Which meant even if Tessa went to them with her theory about the bracelet and the other woman, they might not listen. Might think she was confused or lying or trying to create reasonable doubt for the defense. And meanwhile, the woman who'd killed Victor would know that Tessa had surfaced, had identified herself, had become a target that needed to be eliminated.
Tessa's burner phone finally buzzed. A text from Maya: Sorry, car trouble. Getting it fixed. Will be there by 8. You ok?
Relief flooded through her, followed immediately by suspicion. Car trouble. Convenient excuse for being three hourslate. But Maya's text sounded like Maya—practical, apologetic, checking in. Not someone being coerced or in danger.
Tessa typed back: I'm ok. Be careful.
She almost added more—a warning about being followed, about the danger that might be stalking both of them now—but what would be the point? Either Maya was safe and would arrive in ninety minutes, or she wasn't and a text warning wouldn't help.
Tessa just had to keep herself together.
She returned to the window, to her vigil watching the parking lot as the sky darkened from purple to deep blue to black. The motel's neon sign flickered to life—DESERT STAR, with the 'S's burnt out so it read DE ERT TAR. Appropriate, somehow. This place was for people who'd lost something, who were running from or toward something, who existed in the gaps between their old lives and whatever came next.
Tessa thought about Victor, about how she'd last seen him alive during their previous appointment. He'd been in good spirits, talking about his daughter's upcoming graduation, making plans for a trip to see her. He'd asked about Tessa's real estate classes, remembered that she had an exam coming up, wished her luck.
He'd been kind. In five years of seeing him twice a month, Victor Sheridan had never once made her feel cheap or used or less than human. That was worth more than his money, worth more than the arrangement that had brought them together.
And now he was dead, killed by someone who might be after Tessa next.
A car pulled into the parking lot—not Maya's Honda, but a dark SUV with tinted windows. Tessa's breath caught as she watched it cruise slowly past the rooms, as if the driver was looking for a specific unit number. It paused near her section ofthe motel, and Tessa stepped back from the window, her heart pounding.
The SUV sat there for what felt like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds. Then it continued to the far end of the lot and parked. A man got out—middle-aged, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, carrying what looked like a case of beer. He disappeared into one of the end units.
Just another guest. Just someone checking in for the night.
Tessa forced herself to breathe normally. She was seeing threats everywhere, jumping at every car and shadow. This was what fear did—it turned the mundane into the menacing, made you question everything and trust nothing.
But the fear was also keeping her alert, keeping her careful. The fear might be what kept her alive.
She checked the time. Seven-forty-five. Maya would be here in fifteen minutes if the text was accurate. Fifteen minutes and Tessa would have an ally, someone to help her think through the impossible choice between hiding and surrendering to police protection.
But fifteen minutes felt like forever.
Tessa sat back on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest and making herself small. The room's air conditioning cycled on with a rattling wheeze, and somewhere nearby someone was playing music too loud—country western, all heartbreak and lonesome highways.
She thought about her apartment in Sunnyslope, about the life she'd built so carefully over seven years. The real estate classes that were supposed to be her exit strategy, her path to legitimacy and a future where she controlled her own hours and dignity. The small luxuries she'd collected—good coffee maker, comfortable furniture, a closet full of clothes for both her current life and her planned future.
All of that was contaminated now. The police had probably been there, searched her apartment looking for her. Even if she could somehow go back, it would never feel safe again.
Starting over. That's what this would be. New city, new name, new life. Tessa Crane would disappear and someone else would take her place—someone without a past, without complications, without the memory of finding Victor Sheridan dead in his kitchen.
