Close enough to watch for anything out of place.
Each time I swing past, my pulse eases. I swear I’ll stop, but I never do. Each time I drive away, the dread claws back up my throat.
City calls, Crusher calls, Rock calls. I ignore them all one by one.
City:Boss, you good? Call me.
Ignore.
Crusher:Need ten minutes. Urgent.
Ignore.
Rock:Where the hell are you? Road crew needs orders.
Ignore.
I can’t talk. I can’t explain this. Not when my hands are shaking on the wheel and my thoughts keep circling the same image of Aria asleep beside me, a camera pointed at us from the shadows.
Someone was inside that garage. Someone was close. Someone was patient.
The brothers keep calling. I keep silencing them. City can run a trace on my phone and know I’m fine. The sun arcs lower, turning the snow orange, then red, then blue at the edges.
By the time dusk starts creeping across the sky, I’ve burned half a tank of gas and worn a groove in the road between her house and nowhere.
But the moment my phone buzzes with the time, everything inside me snaps into purpose.
I turn the SUV toward Route 10, toward the motel, which is waiting in the dark. Toward her.
Ten minutes later, the Route 10 motel sign flickers into view like a dying heartbeat. Her car is already in the lot, parked crooked like she couldn’t see straight.
I kill the engine and climb out. My boots crunch in the frozen slush as I cross the lot. The motel is the kind of place where paint peels off the doors and the ice machine hasn’t worked since the eighties.
One flickering neon sign reads:Rooms by the hour.
Goddammit, Aria.
I find her door, and my heart hits the back of my ribs.
I knock once. The door opens before I can knock twice.
She’s standing there in leggings and my flannel, sleeves hanging past her hands, hair pulled into a messy knot. Her eyes are wide. Red-rimmed. Terrified and relieved at once.
I step inside without a word and shut the door. The moment the lock clicks, she breaks. Her hands fist in my cut, pulling me toward her like gravity doesn’t work unless I’m close.
“Isaiah,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “They were in the garage. Inside. They were right there.”
I cup her face, thumbs sweeping her tears. “I know.”
Her breath stutters. “What do we do?”
I don’t have an answer that won’t terrify her. I pull her against me, arms locking around her waist, her cheek pressing into my chest. She trembles. Not delicate, but shaking like she’s standing at the edge of something that could swallow her whole.
I lower my mouth to her temple. “You call me next time,” I murmur. “I don’t care what hour it is. You call me.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You came to the right place,” I breathe.
