Page 82 of One Filthy Kiss

“He knows about Meg.”

“Fuck,” Ric mouths the word as he shows her the screen still open on her call log. “Tell me his name or I’ll call him myself.”

“No!” Nikki tries to grab the phone a second time, her fist grazing Ric’s arm. “Give it back!”

“Name.”

“No.”

We’re wasting time, and Ric’s stony face is making me uneasy. His concerns are real. Whoever this guy is, Nikki’s phone can be traced to this location.

“Can we stop the call from being tracked, Ric?” I ask.

“It will ping off the cell towers.” He addresses both of us. “Anyone with the right equipment will be able to trace the phone to this location.”

“But he wouldn’t do that.” Nikki is still scratching her hand, and blood is trickling down her fingers. Whatever hold this guy has over her, it’s starting to feel toxic from where I’m standing, and their relationship is still in the honeymoon phase where they should be loved up behind their rose-tinted glasses. “Why would he do that?”

“Why don’t you tell us?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Nikki shakes her head, her eyes imploring me to get her phone back.

“Ric,” I step in, “what do you want us to do?”

It’s too late to stop the call being traced now, if that’s what’s going to happen, so we need to be practical. The security team is already concerned about Amber’s sighting. The longer we stand around here discussing Nikki’s lover, the easier it will be for someone to track us down.

“Go inside.” He pockets Nikki’s phone. “Remember what I told you, Meg.”

I nod.

“Stay inside and wait for me to give you the all-clear. Do you understand?”

I understand.

We’re all in danger now, and this is never going to be over.

18

GIOVANNI

“I didn’t see nothing.”

The motel owner is a middle-aged guy with a bushy graying moustache that seems to have roots inside his nostrils. He wears a ragged once-blue polo shirt with a frayed collar, and a tired expression that hints at too many years spent sitting behind the same counter staring at the same worn foyer. His name badge reads: Bill Hodges.

“Do you have a record of the guests who checked into the room?” It’s a genuine question. I can be patient. For now.

“Who wants to know?”

Bruno steps forward and flashes a fake LAPD badge.

Bill eyes it up, his moustache twitching while he debates his options: play the game or be difficult. “Sure.” He doesn’t ask for my ID.

His eyes barely graze our faces on their way to the computer screen in front of him. Perhaps it’s his way of detachinghimself from the people who come and go every day. He could never be a detective.

“Megan Walsh, and her kid.” He scratches his chin, his long nail scratching across silver-tipped stubble.

“When was the last time you saw them?” Another genuine question.

He sucks his top teeth. “A couple days ago.” He’s lying. Boredom might’ve set in years ago, but it’s suddenly preferable to being an unwilling witness in whatever crime we’re investigating.