"Mom—"
"I love you," I said quickly. "Tell Alex, Elijah, Angel, and Grandma I love them too. And kiss that baby for me. And don’t tell Olivia what’s going on if she calls from college. It will only distracther, and she has midterms coming up. I don’t want her to worry, okay?"
“She already knows, Mom,” Christine said with a deep sigh. “You think she doesn’t watch TV?”
“I hoped she wouldn’t. Okay, then tell her I’m okay, and everything will be fine.”
“I don’t think she’ll buy that, but I’ll try.”
“Gotta go.”
I ended the call before my voice could betray me further, before I could make promises I wasn't certain I could keep. For several minutes, I remained seated on the edge of the bed, head bowed, the silent phone clutched in my hand like some talisman that could transport me back to my normal life.
The shower had stopped running, but Matt hadn't emerged. Giving me privacy, I realized, even in this cramped space where privacy was a luxury we could no longer afford.
The door hinges creaked as Matt pushed it open wider. He stood in the doorway, hair damp against his neck, saying nothing as he placed a hand on my shoulder. The simple weight of human connection nearly undid me again. I covered his hand with mine and squeezed once before straightening my spine.
"They're watching the house," I said, focusing on facts rather than feelings. "But everyone's safe for now."
Matt nodded, understanding everything I wasn't saying. We'd both been law enforcement long enough to know the playbook. Watch the family. Monitor communications. Wait for the fugitive to make contact. It was what I would have done.
Through the small bathroom window, a movement caught my eye. The elderly motel owner walked past our room, his gait slow but purposeful, his head turned toward our curtained window. Something about the deliberate nature of his path raised my internal alarms.
"That's the third time he's walked by in the last hour," Matt said, following my gaze.
I rose from the bed’s edge, slipping the phone into my pocket. Later, I'd disassemble it and dispose of the pieces separately, as we'ddone with the others. For now, I needed to focus on the immediate threat.
"We need to be ready to move quickly if we have to," I said, wiping away the last traces of tears with the back of my hand. The vulnerability I'd allowed myself during the call vanished, replaced by the hypervigilance that had kept us alive these past three days.
I moved into the main room and began methodically repacking our few belongings. Matt mirrored my movements with practiced efficiency, our partnership requiring few words. We both knew we had to be ready, in case we needed to leave fast.
Outside, the motel owner passed by again, slower this time, his shadow briefly visible through the gap in the curtains.
"He made a call after we checked in," Matt said quietly, zipping his bag closed. "I couldn't hear what he said, but he kept looking out the window toward us, while he talked."
I nodded, processing this new information. "Could be nothing. Could be calling the cops. Either way, we must be ready."
The emotional warmth from hearing my family's voices still lingered somewhere deep in my chest, but I tucked it away, a luxury I couldn't afford right now. Later, when this was over—if this were ever over—I would allow myself to feel the full weight of what I stood to lose.
We had hours before our meeting with Juan Ramirez, hours we'd planned to use for much-needed rest. But rest, like privacy and safety, had become another casualty of this nightmare.
Chapter 7
THEN:
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Granger's restaurant, casting long rectangles of light across the polished floors. Ann Porter moved between tables with the fluid precision of someone who had walked these paths a thousand times before. She balanced three plates along her left arm, her right hand steadying them with practiced ease, her attention divided between the weight of porcelain and the mental catalogue of who had ordered what. Table seven needed ketchup. The couple by the window would want their check soon. The man in the corner booth had already eaten half his fries but hadn't touched his sandwich. Ann noted it all and filed it away, a constant stream of small observations that kept her shift running smoothly.
"Here you are," she said, setting down plates before a family of four. "Chicken strips for you, burger medium-rare, Caesar salad, and the fish special." Her smile appeared and disappeared efficiently—present long enough to be polite, brief enough to move on.
The restaurant hummed around her with its familiar symphony—knives scraping plates, ice clinking in glasses, the sizzle and hiss from the kitchen, bursts of laughter from the bar. Ann navigated through it all, her body on autopilot while her mind categorized and prioritized each task. Check on table two. Refill waters at nine. Drop off the check at five.
Tom Granger appeared from the back office, his eyes scanning the dining room with the quick assessment of a man who'd spent twenty-five years in the business. He nodded at Ann as she passed, a silent acknowledgment that things were running as they should.
"Need more ranch dressing at table twelve," she murmured as she passed him, and he gave a curt nod, already moving toward the kitchen to relay the message.
Ann swept past the wait station, grabbing a fresh ketchup bottle and napkins in one fluid motion. Her steps faltered slightly when the front door opened, admitting a rush of cooler air and a figure whose presence seemed to fill more space than his physical body should allow.
The policeman stood in the entrance, the afternoon light catching on his badge. He was in full uniform—dark blue that looked almost black until the light hit it just right, utility belt heavy with equipment, the unmistakable bulge of a holstered gun at his hip. Ann wasn't the only one who noticed; a brief hush rippled through the nearest tables, that momentary collective intake of breath that accompanied authority entering a room.
