"I mean it, Isabella." I guess he’s not finding it funny.
Party pooper.
"I know you mean it." I'm already moving toward the diner door.
He grunts. “I'll be right there if you need me or if anything happens.”
I watch him walk toward the gas station with his shoulders tight and his hand drifting toward where his gun is hidden under his jacket, like he's expecting trouble even in this sleepy little town.
He's more on edge than usual, wound tighter somehow, and I wonder if it's because of the photo or because we're out in the open where anyone could be watching.
I turn toward the diner and the bell above the door chimes when I push it open, announcing my arrival to the handful of people inside.
The smell of coffee and bacon grease hits me immediately. Two old men sit at the counter nursing cups of coffee that look like they've been refilled a dozen times. A woman in her fifties is wiping down tables with practiced efficiency, her movements automatic after what must be years of the same routine.
She looks up when I walk in and her face breaks into a smile. "Can I help you, honey?"
"I hope so." I return the smile and keep my voice light and friendly, channeling every ounce of charm I can muster. "I'm staying at a cabin up the road, and someone mentioned seeing a black SUV around here late last night. I'm trying to figure out if it's someone I know, because a friend I was waiting for didn’t show up. Did you happen to see anything?"
She sets down her rag and thinks for a moment, her eyes going distant for a second. "Black SUV, you said?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Around two in the morning, maybe a little after, an SUV woke me up. I live in the apartment above the diner and the engine was loud enough to rattle my windows." She points east with one weathered hand. "Went toward the motel, two miles that way."
"Thank you. Really, I appreciate it."
She's already looking past me and her smile fades like someone flipped a switch.
I turn to find Enzo standing in the doorway, not moving, just watching with that intensity that makes people nervous.
"I should get back to work." The woman is already walking away, putting distance between herself and whatever danger she senses in him.
I walk outside and Enzo follows, falling into step beside me.
"Gas station attendant saw it too, heading east toward the highway."
"The woman said there's a motel two miles out. Maybe we should check it."
"No."
"We're already here?—"
"I said no."
I cross my arms and stop walking, forcing him to turn back to face me. "Why not?"
"Because I don't know what we're walking into, because you're not fucking trained for this, and if something goes wrong?—"
His phone buzzes and he pulls it out, reads something that makes his jaw tighten in that way I've learned means he's furious but controlling it.
Then he looks at me and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. "We check the motel. Quick look. Then we're gone."
I don't ask what changed his mind or who texted him. Just start walking.
The motel is exactly what I expected from a place two miles outside a dying town. Single story with paint peeling off in long strips, half the letters in the neon sign burned out so it reads "MO EL" in flickering red.
Three cars sit in the lot and none of them are black SUVs.
