Tears run down her cheeks, but she joins her hands with mine as we attempt to lift the dresser.
But it’s too heavy.
“Did it lift up, even a little?”Alessia pants from the effort.
“Maybe…let’s try again.”
My muscles strain and the corner of the dresser cuts into my palms as we try to lift.
I don’t think it even budged.They made furniture a lot heavier and sturdier in the nineties, apparently.
“Don’t give up,” I say to Alessia.“We can’t give up.”
“I won’t—I’m with you.”A new determination fills her voice.“We’ll get out of here.”
* * *
SETH
Damiano takes the corners too fast.I don’t say a word against him.He used to race, back in Italy, so he knows how to handle a vehicle.
And we need to get to Fair Heights fast.
“Nearly there,” he says.
I know, because I’ve barely glanced away from the navigation screen since we got in the car.
By some unspoken agreement, we haven’t notified the police.We’ve had too many negative outcomes when involving local law enforcement.The fact is, we’re better trained for high stakes, high combat situations.
Eyes locked on the navigation screen, I say, “We really think this is Francesco, right?”
He sends me a quick, questioning look.“Who else would it be?”
“Someone from Point Ops, fucking with us.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them.Erich Pointer is a mean bastard.But Alessia has been talking about Francesco for weeks.With her missing as well, I believe it’s him.”He glares at the road in front of us.“The good news is, Francesco isn’t a professional.He was smart to avoid the cameras inside the garage, but he forgot about the ones exiting.And he was an idiot for taking Madison.”
“He’s a dead man,” I mutter.“Fuckingdead.”
Not that I’ll go out of my way to kill him, tempting as the thought is.More that I won’t go out of my way to keep him alive.He’s an abuser and a stalker.He’s dangerous to women.
We don’t have any weapons save the utility knife Damiano keeps in his glove compartment.I take it out and tuck it into my pocket.Hopefully we won’t need it, but it doesn’t hurt to have, just in case.
We pull into the motel parking lot.It’s gravel, surrounded by sickly cypress trees.The motel itself looks like it’s held together by little more than a faint wish to do as little upkeep as possible while keeping the place from crumbling to the ground.
There are two other vehicles in the parking lot—a semi-truck and a tiny, red sedan.No white SUV.
If he already checked out and took the women somewhere else, we’re fucked.
Damiano strides to a sad, gray door marked “Office.”I hurry to follow him.
“Francesco Colombo,” Damiano says to the slender, twenty-something guy behind the counter.“Which room is his?”
“Even if we had a guest by that name, I’m not able to give out that information,” the guy says with a practiced air of boredom.
I can tell he isn’t bored, though—this is the most interesting thing to happen to him in days.
“A tall guy, goatee.Hazel eyes.”I reach into my coat pocket for my wallet and find a hundred-dollar bill.“Whatever name he gave you, we know he stayed here.We need to know if he’s still here, and which room is his.This information will save lives.”
