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"There's a mechanic about a mile up the road on the left. Start walking. You can't miss it," she says, pointing in the direction she's telling us to walk.
"Do you mind if we use your phone?" King chimes in, attempting to flash a friendly smile, but instead, it comes off creepy and untrusting.
I knew she wouldn't allow us inside or spend much time speaking with us. Why would she? It doesn't take a genius to figure out we're dangerous men. One look at us with our tattoo-covered hands and necks and untrusting aura about us will tell you that.
Rachel opens her mouth to speak, possibly to tell us to fuck off when a small voice comes flowing from down the hallway. "Mommy! Where did A—" The woman shushes her, stopping her from saying anything further.
We can't see the child from where we stand, and Rachel begins closing the door. “Go to the mechanic shop.” She slams it shut, and through the door, we hear her sliding multiple locks into place.
With a smirk, I turn and follow King toward our parked SUV.
“That was pointless,” he complains after we’re both inside, and I’m driving toward our hotel.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“How do you figure?”
“She has several locks on the door but was trusting enough to undo every one of them and open the door to two strangers when I’m sure she saw us through the peephole. Based on the number of locks, I’m assuming she’s the only adult in the home. It’s just her and the child,” I say, sharing the small details I noticed during our brief encounter. “We’ll go back tomorrow morning. And when we do, she won’t have a choice but to come with us.”
King gives me a nod of approval, rubbing his hands together. “Can’t fucking wait.”
* * *
“I’m ordering room service,then passing the fuck out," King says as we arrive at our hotel. We drove straight here and haven't slept in nearly twenty-four hours. I'm just as exhausted. I'm hoping Malcolm will have answers for us tomorrow about Rachel Hollis's identity, but for now, we need to rest. We know where she lives, and tomorrow we'll be returning to get answers to our questions.
King and I played nicely today, but tomorrow it's unlikely we'll be so kind. My patience is running thin. There's a reason why Rachel and Olivia Hollis don't exist on paper, and I want to know everything I can about them. Especially why they seem to be significant enough that the unknown fucker would send us their photo.
I have too many questions and not enough answers. It's as if I'm being given all the pieces to a puzzle, but the pieces aren't fitting together. I can't connect the dots. So, I'm hoping after a nice meal and a good night's rest, I'll be able to think clearly and connect some of those dots tomorrow.
"Goodnight, brother." King waves, stepping off the elevator once we reach his floor. The hotel we're staying at only had two rooms available, and they're on different floors. I wave him off, then ride up to the next floor.
Entering my keycard into the lock, I push the door open and flick on the lights, stepping inside my empty hotel room. After throwing my duffel bag onto the bed, I strip out of my clothes and walk into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. The feeling of the scorching water loosening up my tight muscles and relaxing my tired aching body is long overdue.
After finishing up, I wrap the plush towel around my waist and open the bathroom door. I’m immediately met with a gust of steam from the warm and cold air mixing together. A chill from the sudden change in the air temperature causes a shiver to run down my spine.
Walking over to the bed, I dig inside my duffel bag, pull out a clean pair of boxers, and quickly shrug them on.
I'm zipping my bag when the hair on my arms stands, and a sense of awareness washes over me.
I'm not alone.
Carefully, without making it obvious, I reach into the side pocket of my bag and pull out my gun. Inhaling, I quickly turn around, raising the weapon at the one person I never expected to see again.
My jaw nearly fucking drops as I look into those crystal blue eyes of hers. Eyes that are always so blue that they almost seem unnatural.
"Tate," I whisper. There's no fucking way it's her. My mind has to be playing tricks on me. I must be fucking dreaming.
She sits on the couch across the room, her eyes never leaving mine. Slowly, she stands and walks toward me until the barrel of my gun is pressed against her forehead.
"Hello, Rowen." Her silky voice has the same baritone I've heard in my mind every night for three months. I've replayed the night of the fire in my head every single night when I close my eyes. I imagine doing things differently and finding a way to protect her. I imagine saving her and her surviving.
After a long moment of silence, the relief I feel seeing her again is washed away and replaced with anger.
So much fucking anger.
She's alive. Tate's alive, and I'm finding out three months later.
What the actual fuck?!
