"Yeah." The word scrapes out. "Semi was close."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the tilt of her head, the way her fingers press harder into my thigh. But she doesn't push. Her hand stays anyway, warm and steady, until my pulse remembers how to settle.
"Thank you," I say finally.
Her brow furrows. "For what?"
"For not asking."
Recognition flickers across her features. She dips her chin and turns to the window, but her hand doesn't move. We drive in silence for another twenty miles.
By the time I see the exit sign for the motel, the adrenaline has cooled into dread. Sloane's starting to fade. Her head tips against the window, breath fogging faintly against the glass. The energy is seeping out of her by degrees, but she won't close her eyes.
"We're stopping."
She glances toward me, uneasy, but doesn't argue.
I guide the car into a gravel lot in front of a motel that's better than it looks but still shitty enough not to attract attention. Lights flicker. The sign hums. There's a one-story line of doors.
Sloane wraps her arms tighter around herself and says words I almost miss.
"What now?"
The fear in her voice scrapes my chest raw. Now I do the thing she'll hate me for. I can live with that.
"We talk," I say.
The motel office smells of stale coffee, lemon cleaner, and boredom. Bored people don't pay attention, which makes this place exactly what we need.
The clerk barely glances up when I walk in, peel off some cash, and give him the fake name etched into half my covers. He slides me a key that's seen too many palms. Room 9. End of the row. One window. One door. Easy to defend. Easier to trap anyone who tries to get in.
Sloane stands near the car as if she's afraid the asphalt might swallow her. Arms braced around herself. Gaze sweeping the shadows.
I tap the hood twice. Softly.
"Come on."
She follows without a sound.
I unlock the door and guide her inside without quite touching her back. She steps through, putting distance between us before I can decide whether she's bracing for contact or wanting it.
Thin carpet, thinner curtains, a bedspread so ugly it should be illegal. One bed sits in the center. I sweep the room: bathroom, corners, window latch, curtain shadows. Out of habit.
She watches me with wide, hollow eyes.
"You can take the bed," I say. "I'll take the chair."
She hesitates, then agrees. Edges toward the bed but doesn't sit. Just stands, hands twisting the hem of her sweater. Waiting for bad news. A muffled buzz cuts through the silence. Sloane freezes. The sound comes again, vibrating against fabric, insistent. Her color drains.
She digs into her jacket pocket with shaking hands and pulls out a phone. It's an old model. Cracked screen. The kind you use when you don't want to be found but can't quite let go.
The caller ID glows in the dim light.
Dad.
She stares at it like it's a live grenade. It buzzes again. And again.
"Don't answer it," I say.
