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"Morning," she called out, voice steady, betraying none of the tension that knotted her stomach.
Silence, thick and stubborn, greeted her through the door. She envisioned Ethan within, lost to the grasp of sleep—a luxury they could ill afford with the clock ticking on their case. A third knock, more insistent this time, broke the quiet.
"Meeting with Carlos' girls in an hour," she reminded the unresponsive door, her mind already sifting through possible scenarios, outcomes, dangers. Trusting no one fully, not even those who claimed to want out. Especially not them.
Her fingers drummed against the door frame, impatience a living thing within her chest. The information these women held could crack the case wide open—or send them down another dead-end path.
"Come on, Ethan," she muttered under her breath, the drumming of her fingers accelerating.
Finally, a sound from within—a rustling of sheets, the creak of a bed—signaled Ethan's reluctant return to consciousness. Rachel pressed her lips together in a thin line, her arms folding across her chest as she waited for the door to swing open.
"Got it," came Ethan's muffled response, his voice tinged with the gravel of sleep, yet alert.
"Public place," Rachel added through the door, a reminder of the delicacy required for this morning's dance. "They're spooked easily."
"Understood."
"Give me five," Ethan called out, his voice clearer now, the sound of movement growing more purposeful.
"Five minutes," Rachel confirmed, already turning away from the door. She leaned back against the opposite wall, arms still folded, eyes on the cheaply varnished wood of Ethan's door. The air in the hallway was stale, tinged with the scent of disinfectant and the ghosts of a thousand transient guests. In this place of impermanence, every second dragged, heavy.
Rachel's mind wandered to the women they were about to meet—survivors in their own right, caught in the jaws of circumstance. She wondered what stories lay behind their guarded eyes, what truths they clutched close like contraband. Would fear or self-preservation win when it came to divulging what they knew about Anna Longshadow?
Her impatience grew and she rapped on the door again, more insistently this time.
The motel room door swung open wider, a slice of morning light cutting across the faded carpet. Ethan stood framed within it, backlit by the stingy glow of a half-hearted sun. He was shirtless, the lean muscle of his torso shifting under skin as he grabbed a black tee from the back of a chair. Rachel's gaze lingered involuntarily, taking in the sinewy strength of his frame—strong but thin, like wire pulled taut.
"Find what you're looking for?" His voice was a low rumble, threaded with amusement.
She snapped her attention to his face, catching the quirk of his dark eyebrow. Heat flushed up her neck. "Just making sure you're not sleeping on the job."
He chuckled, good-natured as ever. Shirt over head, Ethan's arms disappeared momentarily before reemerging clothed. "Wouldn't dream of it." The fabric fell into place, clinging lightly to his form.
"Good," she said, her voice slightly hoarse. She cleared her throat, shifted her weight. "Carlos' girls won't wait all day."
"Understood." He stepped past her, the proximity sending a current through the air.
Rachel followed, her mind churning. Anticipation sharpened her senses, the familiar edge of adrenaline fine-tuning her focus. They were close, she could feel it—a lead, a break in the case, something tangible to grasp amidst the nebulous details and dead ends.
"Public place, right?" Ethan asked, his stride purposeful as they descended the stairs.
"Gas station. Neutral ground for them."
"Smart." Approval was evident in his tone. "Hope they trust us enough to show, at least."
"Or desperate enough," she countered, pushing the door open to the chill of the outside world. They moved toward the unmarked sedan, their shadows long and fleeting on the cracked asphalt.
"Either way," Ethan said, unlocking the car, "we get them talking."
As he slipped into the front seat, Rachel hesitated. Her phone vibrated against her palm, shattering the silence. She glanced at the screen—Aunt Sarah. A visceral twist in her gut; family ties were complicated threads, especially ones frayed by years and distance.
"Rach, heard you're in town. Dinner? My place." The message blinked up at her, each word heavy with implication.
"Can't," Rachel typed, but hesitated. Her thumb hovered, then retreated. Aunt Sarah's tenacity came to her in sharp relief. She'd seen that determination bulldoze through flimsy excuses before.
"Busy with work," she tried again, but deleted the words before they could take flight.
Before she could refuse, another text came in. "Seven PM. Don't be late." No warmth, just expectation.
