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Sweet is still watching.

I point at the evidence bag. “CSI can pull whatever is already there. He does not put it back. He does not send anything from her phone. He does not use her location to make Razor move.”

Nevermore nods once. “Understood.”

Sweet’s voice comes quieter. “Thank you.”

I look at her. “Don’t thank me for that.”

“I’ll decide what I thank people for.”

Of course she will.

I open the truck door for her.

Sweet climbs in without arguing, which worries me more than if she’d fought. Ghoul mounts up behind us. Nevermore pulls ahead on his bike.

I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and force myself not to look at Sweet’s bare knee where her dress rides up.

I fail after three seconds.

She notices after four.

“Eyes on the road, Bitter.”

“My eyes got range.”

“So does a ditch.”

I almost smile.

The drive to the motel takes seven minutes and feels like it lasts an hour. Sweet gives directions in short little sentences. Right at the diner. Left past the tire shop. Second motel after the gas station.

Room twelve.

She does not explain why she picked room twelve.

I already know.

End room. Close to the vending machines, far enough from the office to avoid questions, facing the lot so she can see who pulls in.

A woman with habits like that has counted exits too often.

The motel squats beside the highway with faded blue doors and a sign that promises cable, vacancy, and clean rooms, which means at least one is a lie. A skinny man with a cigarette watches from the office window, then disappears when Nevermore parks his bike in front of the door.

“Ronnie?”

“Probably.”

“He looks bribeable.”

“He offered me a weekly rate and asked if I had a boyfriend in the same breath.”

My hands tighten on the wheel. “What did you say?”

“I said I had a tire iron and mace.”

“That work?”