"I'm FBI. I'm investigating a homicide." He gestured at the room. "You're a baker. Or is that another lie?"
Her face went carefully blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You searched this room like a pro. You knew exactly how to stay quiet, how to move, how to—" He stopped himself, breathing hard. "Who are you? Really?"
"I told you. I'm trying to help you find your brother."
"By breaking into a dead guy’s motel room in the middle of the night?" Gabe's voice rose slightly before he caught himself. He forced it back down to a harsh whisper. "That's not helping. That's obstruction. That's tampering with evidence. That's?—"
"I found the room empty, just like you did." Her chin lifted. "I didn't tamper with anything."
The lie was smooth. Practiced.
And it made his blood boil.
They stood there in the darkness, breathing hard. Adrenaline and anger crackling between them like static electricity.
Her hands were still shaking. He could see it even in the poor light.
She'd been terrified. So had he. Each for entirely different reasons.
But she was lying. About something. Maybe everything.
Cara moved to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains. "I'm leaving."
"We need to talk."
"No. We don't." She checked the angle through the window.
"Cara, you're connected to this. To Ruiz. To whatever got him killed. You need to tell me?—"
"I don't need to tell you anything." She had one leg over the sill.
" If you run, I have to assume you're involved. That you know something about?—"
But the woman from before leaned out of her room again, yelling at the drunk guests. "I said keep it down! Some of us have work in the morning!"
The distraction lasted maybe five seconds.
It was enough.
Cara slipped through the window and dropped to the ground. She landed in a crouch, absorbed the impact, and vanished into the trees with the kind of fluid grace that came from training.
Gabe reached the window in time to see her silhouette disappear into the shadows. He could go after her. Should go after her. But the drunk guests were moving in his directionnow, and the last thing he needed was witnesses placing him at a crime scene.
He pulled the window closed and turned back to the room.
His flashlight beam swept across the space methodically. Bed. Dresser. Bathroom. Trash can. Nothing the intruders had missed. Nothing they'd found either, based on their frustrated searching.
He checked under the mattress. Behind the headboard. Inside the air vent.
Nothing.
His light landed on the nightstand. He pulled open the drawer.
Bible. Phone book. And in the dust on the bottom of the drawer, a perfect rectangular outline. Recently disturbed. The size and shape of a small paper.
Gabe stared at it.
