Page 113 of Victorious

“You know, Gabriel…” Eli sat back in his chair. “For someone trying to assemble the puzzle, it seems like you’re still missing a rather important piece.”

Across the table, the therapist studied him. Then put his pencil down and leaned forward.

“Okay, Eli,” he said. “Tell me more about the girl.”

5EXPOSURE

INOW. THEN.

12 HOURS BEFORE THE END

THE BEST MOTEL IN BETHANY

THE red pickup pulled into the motel lot well after midnight.

Syd was curled against the window, a sweater balled under her cheek, her breath low and even. For a minute, after Mitch turned the engine off, he simply sat there, head tipped back and eyes closed, his hands aching dully from where he’d gripped the wheel.

They’d been on the road for several hours, without a single sign of trouble, and Mitch was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake, upending their lives. If the stranger on their step had been exactly what he said: a passerby. Better safe than sorry, that had always been his motto.

But Sydney wasn’t the only one tired of running.

He sighed and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, kid,” he said, gently shaking her awake.

Back when she’d had nightmares, she’d been afraid to sleep at all, and when she did, she’d skim the surface of it, as if that would help her break free. The bad dreams had stopped, but she still seemed to sleep with one foot in the waking world. There was no mumbled protest, no groggy beat of in-between. The moment he touched her, her eyes flicked open, and she sat up.

“Where are we?” she asked, peering into the dark.

The truth was, Mitch had no idea. Which made it as good a place as any to stop.

“Stay here,” he said, stepping out of the truck. “I’ll go check in.”

He crossed to the office, the vacancy sign buzzing faintly in the dark.

He’d picked the motel for its nondescript appearance, its free Wi-Fi, and the fact there were only two other cars in the lot, and judging by the look of one, it hadn’t moved in weeks.

They could have stayed somewhere nicer—after all, they had the cash. Mitch had written programs that skimmed fractions of cents from a thousand rotating accounts, increments so small that no one ever noticed, even though it added up. But money was its own red flag, and nice places kept better track of guests, especially when they looked like him.

A bell chimed over the door when he walked in.

The lights were on, but no one sat behind the counter. Mitch rang the call button. As he waited, he rolled his neck, casting a surreptitious glance at the camera mounted in the corner.

He was willing to bet that if the motel truly had a security system, it was the old closed-circuit kind. But judging by the lack of light or power on the flat black eye, it was purely decorative.

Eventually, a lanky, disheveled man stumbled out of a back room, looking like he’d just been woken from a dead sleep. Which, probably, he had. He didn’t have a name tag, so Mitch mentally labeled him the motel manager.

“Help you?”

“Checking in,” said Mitch, unable to think of another reason he’d be standing there at 1 a.m.

The motel manager yawned. “Just one night?” Mitch nodded. “How many rooms?”

He hesitated. Safe meant sticking together, but Syd deserved her privacy, what little he could give her, and so did Mitch. Besides, he told himself, there were only two floors, eight rooms on each, sixteen doors all facing the same lot.

“Two,” he said. “If you can put them side by side.”

The manager nodded. “I think we can manage,” he said, punching a keyboard that looked like it had bridged the gap between typewriters and personal computers. “So,” he said, awake enough to make small talk, “what brings you to Bethany?”