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"I spoke to the cashier at the gas station," I reply quietly. "He said that a few other guys have been here asking about Natalia too."
"Fuck." Rico's expression darkens. "Who are these fucking guys? Did he give any description?"
"Just average-looking guys," I say, relaying the details from earlier. "But they're interested in finding her too."
Rico nods, deep in thought. "It could be the people who took her," he says slowly. "But it could also be someone else looking for her."
I agree. The fact that other people are also searching for Natalia only heightens my worry for her safety.
"We need to find her before they do," one of our men speaks up.
I nod in agreement. "Let's see what else we find out around town," I say decisively.
We split up to cover more ground. The darkness deepens around us as we make stops at various locations – bars, convenience stores, even another local diner – hoping to gather any clues or leads about Natalia or the men looking for her. Despite our efforts, we come up empty-handed tonight. We ask questions and show pictures, but no one has seen or heard anything. Disheartened, we regroup and refuel with coffee before setting out again. She's out there somewhere, and I have to find her. Our mission is clear.
And for us, knowing we aren’t the only ones looking for her, we’re all amped up with a renewed sense of urgency. I will stop at nothing to bring her back to me.
There's a race on to find Natalia now.
And we need to win.
5
Natalia
I soakin the rays of the morning sun pouring its golden light into the corridor of the motel, casting long shadows on the aged carpet as I knock softly on the room door marked with a faded number 102. The sound of my gentle knocks seems too loud in the quiet morning. The routine of straightening the bedsheets and tidying up brings a sense of routine, yet my mind drifts back to the life I left behind, and to Antonio.
“Housekeeping,” I call out gently. The door swings open, revealing a middle-aged man in a business suit, his suitcase at his feet.
He greets me with a courteous nod. “Morning,” he says, a polite smile on his face. “Just leaving. Room’s all yours.”
“Thank you, sir. Have a safe trip,” I reply softly.
As he wheels his suitcase away, I step into the room, where the lingering scent of his aftershave mingles with the stale air. The room he leaves behind is a canvas of his short stay -- the bed unmade that's seen a restless night, a coffee maker that's been used more than once since last cleaned, a half-empty coffee cup on the nightstand, a crumpled newspaper, and an oil-stained room service order menu.
The task of cleaning is methodical, almost meditative. Stripping the bed, I can't help but remember the luxurious linens on my bed back home, which are nothing like these modest sheets. Each fold and tuck of the bedding draws me deeper into memories as the morning sunlight filters through the curtains onto the unmade bed and scattered belongings. The mundane task of cleaning this room is a real change from the life I once lived, filled with luxury. But there was a sense of constant danger in that life, ultimately leading to my brutal kidnapping. Here in Taos, the only danger is in my mind, in my fear of when I might be discovered.
As I strip the bed, my mind wanders back to Antonio – his intense gaze, the way his presence filled a room. The memories come in flashes; our infrequent but heated arguments, the rare tender moments, his protection while he guarded me, the undeniable connection we shared. It's a pain that's both sweet and sharp, a feeling that's as forbidden as it is deep.
In the motel diner, I find a rhythm in the daily tasks - pouring coffee, taking orders, and exchanging brief, polite conversations with the guests. The atmosphere buzzes with the morning rush. Regulars and travelers blend together, each with their own story. The smell of bacon, eggs, and fresh pancakes fills the air, mingling with the strong scent of coffee. I move between the tables, pouring coffee and taking orders, each interaction a delicate dance of politeness and efficiency.
A family of four occupies one of the booths, the children's laughter piercing the silence of my usually quiet mornings. "What can I get for you?" I ask, pad in hand.
The mother, a woman with kind eyes, orders for the family. "We'll have two of the breakfast specials, and pancakes for the kids, please."
"And extra syrup!" the youngest child chimes in, his face lighting up with excitement at the thought of drowning his pancakes in sticky sweetness.
"Coming right up," I reply, smiling at his enthusiasm. It's moments like these that I crave. The simple joys.
Each interaction brings some routine to my day, but my thoughts are often elsewhere. His presence, once so dominant in my life, has become the thing that haunts my quieter moments.
My mid-morning today is spent cleaning rooms after the breakfast rush. Here, the remnants of strangers' lives briefly intersect with mine. Each room tells a different story - a family on vacation, a lone traveler, a couple stealing a weekend away. I change sheets, scrub bathrooms, and dust surfaces, my thoughts sometimes calm to the tasks, where I can move automatically, fluffing pillows and wiping down the traces of the last guests. The simplicity of these tasks is a relief. I meet a variety of guests, each with their own story. Today, I chat briefly with a young couple on a road trip, their excitement contagious.
"We're heading to the Grand Canyon next," the woman shares, her eyes sparkling.
I can almost feel the thrill of the open road and the endless possibilities that lie ahead for them. Their excitement radiates off them warmly. I wonder if I'll ever have the chance to be on an adventure, with backpacks and maps spread out in front of me instead of what I have now. Running away, dangerously hunted, and the threat of being found.
"That sounds amazing," I respond, genuine in my envy.
