By the time we leave, I’ve already packed a bag of necessities.
Laptop. Receivers. Spare batteries. Adhesive-backed micro-cams. Listening devices small enough to disappear in the hem of a curtain or the seam of a lamp base. Tools. Gloves. A change of clothes. A compact case with enough surveillance gear to make a federal prosecutor sweat.
Shiloh glances into the backseat and whistles. “Romantic. Honestly, Ever. I’m impressed, and a little bit scared of how efficiently ruthless you are. Especially about her.”
I shut thehatch. “Get in.”
We take one of the dark compact SUVs from the far garage—not one Reva’s seen before, not one she’d clock on instinct. The motel is exactly the kind of place I expected. A long, sun-faded strip of rooms with exterior doors, cracked pavement, a flickering vacancy sign even in daylight. The sort of place that rents anonymity by the hour and loyalty by the night.
Her SUV is backed into a spot three doors down from a dead vending machine.
I park across the lot where we can see her door without being obvious about it.
We wait.
By late morning, she emerges in jeans and a shirt she must’ve slept in, hair loose, eyes hidden behind sunglasses too large for her face. She checks the lock on the door, glances once up and down the walkway, then heads toward the street with the purposeful gait of someone trying hard not to look haunted.
The kitten stays behind. Which makes me want to spank Reva’s ass for the audacity. Poor neglected feline.
Shiloh looks over. “You want me on her?”
“Please.”
“What are you doing while I’m gone, exactly?”
“Housekeeping.”
He laughs under his breath. “You are such a creep. I truly, truly love that for you.”
“Go.”
He slips out of the car and saunters after her at a distance that would insult my intelligence if it belonged to anyone else. Shiloh looks loose when he wants to. Forgettable. Harmless. It’s one of his more revolting talents. But I know better. He’s got the speed and skill to get to her in an instant if needed.
I wait until they’ve both disappeared around the corner before I cross the lot.
The motel corridor smells like hot concrete, stale cigarettes, and industrial cleaner that gave up years ago. I reach her door, glance once across the railing, then crouch at the knob.
The lock is garbage. I’m inside in under ten seconds. Shiloh could have done it quicker.
The room is dim, curtains half-drawn against the glare. An air-conditioning unit hums weakly in the window. The bed is unmade, covers kicked down, one pillow dented and another shoved sideways. Her bag sits open on the chair. A paper cup is on the nightstand next to a cheap lamp and a Bible no one has touched in months if not years.
Homer lifts its head from the bed and blinks at me. I put a finger to my mouth. It yawns.
“Traitor,” I murmur.
First thingsfirst.
I move fast, sweeping the room with practiced eyes. Smoke detector. Good line of sight to the door and bed. Lamp base. TV housing. Vent near the bathroom. Mirror corner.
I plant what I brought with me methodically, efficiently, each device tucked where it belongs. One to catch audio near the bed. One angled at the door. One wide enough to take in most of the room. Another concealed near the little table by the window.
By the time I finish, I can sit three miles away and know whether she’s pacing, crying, sleeping, writing, or talking to someone she shouldn’t be.
That should be enough. It isn’t, though. I stand in the middle of the room for a moment, listening to the hum of the A/C and the dull thud of my own pulse.
Then I look at her things.
It starts innocently enough. Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
