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His voice comes through, a bit muffled, as if he's speaking covertly. " Overheard a couple of locals chatting. They mentioned a new girl at the self-defense classes. Nobody knows much about her."
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, considering this. "Did they say anything else? Any details that stand out?"
"Not much to go on, boss," he replies.
I let out a slow breath, my mind racing. It's not much, but in our line of work, even the faintest rumor can lead to something bigger. "Let’s see what more we can find out."
"You got it, boss. I'll stay on it."
As I leave the diner, my phone vibrates. One of the other men reports in that he heard about a new girl at self-defense class too.
Two leads offering the same tip. That's a good sign. I quickly respond, "Check it out discreetly. Keep me updated."
I head back to the SUV and drive towards the community center, the possibilities playing out in my mind. Parking a block away, I watch and wait.
I find myself deep in thought, piecing together the fragments of information. The idea that this new girl at the self-defense class could be Natalia starts to take hold in my mind. It makes sense. If she was taken and managed to get away, she'd want to be prepared, ready for anything else that might come her way.
I lean back in the driver's seat, my gaze fixed on the community center in the distance. Natalia's been taking charge of her own safety, picking up the slack where I failed.
I think about the last conversation I had with my boss, the weight in his voice, the unspoken fears that lay beneath his words. He was a man who had seen much, endured much, and his retreat into the shadows was proof of how dire the situation was. But without his guidance, I feel like I'm drifting. What would he say about my progress in finding his daughter? Or the fact that she’s not in our care at all when that was my only job?
Definitely nothing good.
15
Natalia
The sharp scentof industrial cleaning products fills my nostrils, mingling with the crisp smell of freshly washed linens as I push the clattering cart down the corridor of the motel. My rubber soles squeak in a familiar tune with the thudding of the vacuum strapped to one side. My routine as a hotel room cleaner is easier. I’ve come to enjoy hearing the bedsheets snapping as I yank them off. But no one will ever hear me sounding happy about the toilet brushes scrubbing away dirt. No one likes cleaning other people’s bathrooms.
Today, my rhythm doesn’t come. There’s a guest, a middle-aged man, who’s found a way to take away my usual relaxed detachment. His piercing gaze seems to dissect me with each glance, as if he knows something more about me than anyone else. Every time I pass by his room, just knowing that he’s watching me or nearby makes me anxious, and it’s starting to get to me.
Today, I find him leaning casually against the doorframe, and with an intensity simmering beneath his gaze. His simple clothes - a plain t-shirt and jeans- doesn’t fit with his behavior. His hair is slicked back with careful exactness, shining unnaturally.
I greet him with a quiet good morning and slip through the door, hoping to finish my tasks in his room as fast as I can. The more he talks, the more mechanical and robotic I move. I change his sheets stiffly, wanting to be out of here.
"So, how are you finding Taos?" he inquires, his voice smooth and slick.
"It's... lovely, quiet," I answer, my voice barely audible, avoiding eye contact.
"That's good. You know, I travel here a lot for business. Always on the move," he continues, still staring.
I nod uncertainly, wanting to dismiss his curiosity as harmless and out of boredom. Even if it is, I can’t pinpoint why he makes me so uncomfortable. I struggle to keep my composure and his prying into my life makes it hard to focus as I try to distract myself by focusing on the pillows I’m fluffing. There’s a part of me feels I might be second guessing his intention because my hypervigilance may be a result of what I’ve been through.
He keeps talking, sharing details about his travels and business dealings, but his words all blend into a blur of white noise to me. I just want to get the hell out of his room.
As I finish up and pack up, he straightens up in his spot by the door, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, "You know, you're different from most of the people I've met here. I can't quite put my finger on it."
I freeze for a moment, not sure of how to reply. "I... I'm just a motel housekeeper," I stammer, trying to make my voice sound steady.
He chuckles softly, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Sure you are."
Maintaining a composed facade, I reply coolly, "I'm not sure what you mean. I'm just trying to make a living and get by."
He leans back slightly, studying me with an intensity that sets my nerves on edge. "You just carry yourself different. It's just an observation."
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I fake my indifference. "You’re reading too much into whatever you think you're seeing. It's just a job."
His eyes narrow subtly, as if he sees through my act. "Perhaps," he says with a hint of skepticism.
