Tristan set his jaw and declared, "My sister is missing. I'll do whatever it takes."
The man stared at him for another second, then dipped his head slightly, and Tristan took that as a sign to continue.
"When I got inside, it was empty, no crates or containers. It was weird. I found an office, and it seemed like someone had been there recently. There were food wrappers and water bottles in the trash can. So I asked my friend Kenny to find out who the warehouse belonged to. He's an amazing hacker, and he was able to dig around. He traced several shell corporations and holding companies and crap, but earlier today, Kenny connected one of the companies to Wilson."
"So that's why you broke into his house? To find information about your sister?"
Tristan notched his chin up in defiance. "Yeah. So what?"
"You could have gotten killed."
The truth of those words hit Tristan hard, reminding him of the feeling of cold metal against his temple. He paused to shake the memory and to refocus on why he'd taken such a risk, and when he continued, his voice cracked. "I know it was stupid, but I had to do something. She's only sixteen, and she's all I have. I was supposed to take care of her, and I failed. I …"
Emotion strangled him, blocking the rest of his words. Another wave of nausea swelled, familiar now after six days of guilt, worry and hopelessness.
He expected some derision from the killer next to him, but none came. Instead, the man simply said, "I'm sorry."
Tristan cleared his throat, but the words still felt like sandpaper in his mouth. "Anyway, I was careful. I waited till he left."
"But you took way too long. Why?"
Embarrassment rippled over Tristan at his inadequacy, and he quietly admitted, "I sort of had trouble picking the locks. The back door took longer than I expected, and all the desk drawers and the file cabinet were locked too. It looked much easier on YouTube." He grumbled the last part, feeling betrayed by his internet research.
The man's gaze darted to him. "You just learned to pick a lock today?"
"Yeah. So what?"
The stranger studied him for a moment but said nothing before facing forward again.
They were both quiet for a time before Tristan spoke again. "I don't know your name."
His companion glanced over at him, then back at the road. He didn't speak for so long that Tristan figured he wouldn't answer. He supposed it made sense, given that he'd witnessed him murder someone. In the prolonged silence, Tristan questioned his decision to seek help from this dangerous killer.
"Cade," he finally answered, piercing the silence and making Tristan's head snap in that direction.
"Oh. I'm Tristan Hines."
Cade only nodded in response.
"So, um, where are we going?" Tristan asked as he swallowed his rational fears and reminded himself why he'd decided to stick with this guy.
"To a motel until we can get a safe house."
"A safe house?"
"Yeah, you need to lay low until we can eliminate these pricks. They'll find Wilson and think you killed him. Whoever Wilson was talking to knows they're looking for a red-haired reporter, and they probably already know your name and what you look like."
Tristan internally cursed his job as an on-air reporter for the local television station. If not for his visibility, he might not have to hide from these people. He might be able to go home.
His empty home.
He swallowed hard, and his stomach clenched when he imagined how Natalie might be suffering.
"Oh, yeah, I guess that makes sense. Which motel?"
"There's one a ways out of town. Pretty run down, but they take cash and won't ask questions."
"How are we going to get info off this laptop?"
