Chapter 7
Inside, she moved quickly. Dark jeans. Black hoodie. Running shoes with soft soles. She pulled her hair back into a tight bun and grabbed the lockpick set from behind the winter coats in her closet.
The weight of the leather case was all too familiar, even after all this time. She could picture the picks inside, knew exactly which worked best on cheap motel locks.
Lord, I know this isn't exactly righteous behavior. But I'm trying to help someone find his brother. That counts for something, right?
The prayer felt like negotiation. Again.
She added a small flashlight to her jacket pocket. Gloves. A bobby pin as backup. The supplies of someone who'd done this all too many times.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looked wrong. The neat baker's bun. The careful neutral clothes. The face of Cara Sweet preparing to become Carly Reid again.
She touched the silver cross at her throat.
Just this once. Then I go back to being boring.
The lie tasted familiar.
Twenty minutes later, her bakery's rusting Subaru coughed to life in the alley behind the building. She pulled onto Main Street, drove past the darkened shops, and turned north onto Highway 101.
The forest was pitch black this time of night. No moon. Towering pines blocked out the stars. Her headlights carved twin tunnels through the darkness, revealing nothing but pavement and the occasional reflective eyes of wildlife watching from the tree line.
She checked her mirrors. Adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. Tried to ignore the way her pulse had kicked up three notches.
This was stupid. Breaking into a crime scene. Tampering with evidence. All the things that could send her back to prison if Gabe Sawyer caught her. But if this PI had info on her past, she was going back anyway. Not much of a choice.
Fifteen miles had never felt longer.
The turnoff was easy to miss - just a gap in the trees with a weathered sign that read "Seafoam Lodge" in peeling letters.
Cara slowed and turned onto the narrow access road.
Gravel crunched under her tires, loud in the forest silence.
No streetlights. No security cameras she could see.
Just darkness and towering pines pressing in from both sides.
Perfect for someone who didn't want to be found.
Or for someone breaking in.
Seafoam Lodge looked exactly like the kind of place Reagan and Pearl had described - the sort of establishment that had seen better days and stopped caring.
A flickering neon VACANCY sign cast sickly red light across the parking lot.
Single-story, L-shaped. Maybe a dozen rooms total.
Most sat dark. Two vehicles parked at opposite ends - a pickup truck and a sedan, both old enough to suggest long-term residents rather than tourists.
The manager's office glowed blue white from a television visible through grimy windows. Cara could make out a silhouette slumped in a chair, unmoving.
She killed her headlights and coasted to a stop near the tree line, far enough from the office to avoid notice. Her hands were steady on the wheel, but her heart hammered against her ribs.
Room 12 would be at the far end. Away from the office. Away from the other guests.
Away from witnesses.
The red neon reflected off puddles in the gravel, turning them the color of blood.
Cara killed her headlights and rolled past the main lot. Two spaces down, she found a turnout half-hidden by overgrown ferns. She parked, cut the engine, and sat in the sudden silence.
Her pulse hammered at the base of her throat. She pulled on the gloves, tucked the flashlight into her pocket, and slipped out of the car.
Pine needles muffled her footsteps as she moved through the cold shadows toward the building. The darkness amplified every sound. The hum of a vending machine. A dog barking somewhere distant. The creak of wood settling.
She paused at the edge of the parking lot, scanning for movement. The manager's office window showed a silhouette slumped in a chair, transfixed by whatever was on the TV.
No one else visible.
Cara crossed to Room 12 in three quick strides, her body pressed against the wall beside the window. She counted to ten, listening.
No sounds from inside. No movement behind the curtain.
The window latch was perfect. Old. Rusted. The kind of cheap hardware that hadn't been upgraded since the lodge was built.
She crouched beneath the sill and pulled out the bobby pin. Slid it into the gap between the frame and the latch. Applied gentle pressure. Felt the mechanism resist, then give.
The soft click seemed impossibly loud.
She eased the window up, inch by careful inch. The smell hit her first. Stale cigarette smoke. Old carpet. The particular mustiness of a room that never been properly aired.
She hoisted herself through and landed softly on the worn carpet inside.
Her breath came too loud in the enclosed space. She froze, listening for any sound that suggested she wasn't alone. Nothing but the hum of a mini-fridge and the distant murmur of the television from the office.
The room was exactly what she'd expected. Queen bed with a sagging mattress. Beat up nightstand with one crooked drawer lamp. Dresser with a mirror. Small bathroom visible through an open door. Everything coated in that particular film of neglect that budget motels wore like a second skin.
Someone had been living here. Fast food bags in the trash. Clothes draped over the chair. A half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. The bed unmade, sheets twisted like someone had tossed through restless sleep.
Cara pulled out her flashlight, keeping the beam low and away from the window. She started with the trash can. Burger wrappers. Coffee cups. A receipt from a gas station in Lincoln City dated three weeks ago.
The dresser drawers were empty except for a Bible and a phone book. She checked behind them anyway.
Nothing.
The nightstand held a notepad. Her pulse spiked. She lifted it carefully, angling it toward the anemic light filtering in from between the shades. She made out fragments. Letters. Partial words.
And initials: DS
She thumbed quickly through the other pages. Most were full. Frustration caught at the back of her throat. No time to read them now.
She shoved the notepad into her jacket pocket and moved to check under the mattress. As soon as she made certain there was no information about her, she’d make sure Gabe got the notepad. Somehow. Without implicating herself in this mess.
Tires on gravel.
An engine cutting off.
Car doors closing with careful quiet.
Her body sang with tension, sharp needles of energy that zinged down to her fingertips. She crossed to the window and risked a glance through the gap in the curtains.
A dark sedan lurked at the far side of the parking lot beneath an overgrown cedar. Not the rental SUV Gabe had been driving. Two large, dark figures detached from the shadows, heading across the parking lot with purpose.
Straight toward her.
No. No, no, no.
The window was too far. She'd never make it out and away before whoever it was reached the door.
She had seconds.
Cara spun and darted toward the closet. Bifold doors, half-open. She yanked them wider and slipped inside.
Her shoulder collided with something solid.
Warm.
Human.
She sucked in enough air to scream.
A hand clamped over her mouth before an arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her backward against a solid chest. She tried to struggle, but the grip was iron. Her training kicked in automatically—stomp, elbow, twist—but she was pinned too tightly in the cramped space.
"Don't." The word was barely a breath against her ear. Male. Familiar. "It's me. Sawyer."
Her body went rigid with recognition.
He'd been in the closet the whole time.
The motel room door opened with a soft click.
Footsteps entered. Slow. Deliberate.