14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Donna
We are just getting back onto the freeway when I notice the dark sedan behind us.
It has stayed far enough back to avoid drawing attention, but when Lorenzo changes lanes, it follows. When he passes a truck, the sedan does the same a few seconds later.
I watch it in the side mirror through the next curve.
“There’s a car—”
“I know,” Lorenzo says, his eyes remaining on the road. “I noticed it about a minute ago.”
I look back at the sedan. “Could be a coincidence.”
“Yes.”
But neither of us believes that.
He takes the next exit.
The sedan follows.
Lorenzo turns right at the end of the ramp, then takes another right onto a quieter road lined with service garages and fenced lots.
The sedan makes both turns.
“That settles it,” I say.
“Yes.”
His voice stays calm, and he keeps driving easily, but I can tell his attention is sharp.
And he clearly has a destination.
“Do you have a plan?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Would you like to include me in it?”
“In a moment.”
I look at him sharply.
His right thumb presses once against a button on the steering wheel.
No call appears on the dashboard. No voice comes through the speakers.
He keeps driving.
“What did you just do?”
“Let my people know.”
“Your people are nearby?”
“They are always nearby.”
I look through the side mirror again, scanning the road behind the sedan.
Nothing stands out.
A black SUV turns onto the road several blocks back.
Another vehicle, a silver crossover, appears from a side street ahead and continues at a normal speed.
“How many?” I ask.
“Enough.”
“What a useless answer.”
He smiles faintly. “It is the answer you’re getting.”
The sedan closes the distance suddenly.
The driver has realized we are testing them.
“Lorenzo,” I warn.
“I see it.”
Lorenzo accelerates.
The engine responds immediately, pushing me back against the seat as we gain speed.
Mocha lifts his head.
“Stay,” I tell him.
His body tenses, but he remains where he is.
The sedan follows, weaving around a slower vehicle and cutting back into our lane.
“I guess the time for subtlety is over,” I say.
“Yes,” he responds.
Lorenzo takes another turn hard enough that the tires bite against the pavement.
I brace one hand against the door.
The sedan follows too fast, swinging wide before correcting.
The black SUV stays behind it. Closer now.
The silver crossover slows ahead of us, forcing Lorenzo to move left before it accelerates again.
For half a second, I think it is blocking us.
Then I understand.
It is guiding us and the sedan.
The SUV closes in from the rear, leaving the driver little room to slow or turn away. The crossover stays ahead and slightly to the right, controlling which lane remains open.
Lorenzo does not look at either vehicle.
He already knows where they are.
“You planned this route,” I say.
His eyes flick toward me for a second. “I’m familiar with the area.”
It must be why he chose this exit.
We reach an industrial stretch with fewer businesses and more empty lots. Chain-link fences run along both sides of the road. Most of the buildings are dark.
The sedan tries to move around the SUV.
The SUV shifts with it, never touching, never forcing enough to cause a collision.
Just pressure.
The sedan moves back into line.
“They’re boxing it in,” I say.
“They’re guiding it.”
“Toward what?”
“You’ll see.”
The crossover takes the next left.
Lorenzo follows.
The sedan hesitates.
The SUV closes the space behind it.
The only clear route is left.
It turns.
The road narrows between two long warehouse buildings. Loading bays line one side. A row of dark windows runs along the other.
There are no pedestrians.
No passing traffic. No cameras visible from the street.
Of course this is where Lorenzo wants them.
The crossover slows ahead, then turns through an open gate.
Lorenzo follows it into a broad paved lot behind the larger warehouse.
The sedan tries to continue past the entrance.
The SUV moves up beside it, forcing it toward the gate.
The sedan jerks left and enters the lot.
Another vehicle appears from behind the warehouse and blocks the exit once all of us are inside.
The gate begins to close.
I look at Lorenzo.
“How many warehouses do you have handy for situations like this?”
“Enough.”
“Again with that answer.”
He brings the car to a stop near the center of the lot.
The crossover parks near the far wall. The SUV stops behind the sedan.
The third car blocks the gate completely.
The sedan sits twenty feet away from us, engine still running.
No one gets out.
Mocha stands in the back seat, eyes fixed on the other vehicle.
His body is rigid now, waiting for me.
I reach down and open my bag.
Lorenzo glances at the gun in my hand and lifts a brow.
“Your extra protection, I presume?”
I shrug.
He simply smiles and turns off the engine.
Outside, several men step from the other vehicles. They spread through the lot without rushing, leaving no opening toward the gate or the warehouse doors.
The sedan remains still.
Lorenzo opens his door.
I do the same.
Cold air sweeps through the car as I step out.
Mocha lets out a low sound from the back seat.
“Come,” I tell him.
He jumps out and takes his protective stance next to me.
Lorenzo comes around the hood and stops beside me.
His attention is fixed on the sedan.
The driver’s silhouette shifts behind the windshield.
I close my door and stand with him in the middle of the warehouse lot, waiting to see who has been following us.
For several seconds, nobody moves.
Lorenzo’s people have spread out around us, leaving the sedan boxed between two vehicles and the closed gate. No one crowds the driver’s door. No one raises a weapon.
They wait.
That tells me more about Lorenzo than any display of violence would.
Next to me, Mocha stands at the ready, his body rigid and his eyes trained on the sedan. A low sound vibrates in his chest.
“Stay,” I tell him.
His ears angle toward me, but he does not look away from the other car.
Lorenzo takes one step forward.
“Turn off the engine.”
His voice carries across the lot without effort.
After a moment, the engine shuts off.
The silence that follows is complete enough for me to hear the faint ticking beneath the sedan’s hood.
“Get out,” he says.
Again, there’s a pause, and after a moment, the driver’s door opens slowly.
A woman steps out.
For one instant, my mind tells me it’s Genevieve.
The same face. The same height. The same mouth and eyes.
Then I see the differences.
Rachel’s hair has been dyed to match her sister’s, but her face is thinner than Genevieve’s was in the photographs, the bones beneath her skin more pronounced. She wears dark jeans, boots, and a black coat zipped to her throat.
But it's the look in her eyes that tells me more than anything that this is not Genevieve. For a brief moment, what she is shows plainly: psychopath.
Then she shuts it down, and she's all innocence.
Her gaze finds me first.
Then she sees Lorenzo.
Her lips tremble. Her eyes widen in shock and surprise. One hand rises toward her chest.
The reaction arrives all at once, too complete and too polished.
Fear. Confusion. A slight tremble in her hand.
That performance pulled together at a moment’s notice.
She’s good. I’ll give her that.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “What is this? What’s going on?”
I study her.
The photographs in Elaine’s house showed a girl who disliked cameras. The woman in front of me knows exactly how to perform for an audience.
“Step away from the car,” I say.
“I don’t understand.”
“Move.”
Her gaze flicks around the lot, counting people and vehicles while keeping her expression frightened.
Then she takes two small steps away from the sedan.
Her hands remain visible, palms turned outward.
“I was only driving,” she says. “I don’t know why these men forced me in here.”
Tears gather in her eyes on cue.
Lorenzo begins walking toward her.
Rachel watches him approach. Her breathing becomes shallow, but her eyes remain alert. Measuring distance. Watching his hands. Checking the men behind him.
She is afraid now. I believe that is real.
“Rachel Monroe,” he says.
Her chin trembles.
“I think you have the wrong person.”
Lorenzo keeps walking.
She takes one step back.
“You followed us from the motel,” I say.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did you pay the manager to call you if someone came looking for you?” I ask.
Her eyes snap toward me.
The tear slips down her cheek.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes. You do,” I say conversationally. “You arrived while we were inside the room, waited until we left, and followed us.”
“I was nearby,” she stutters. “He called because he was worried.”
“About what?”
“He said two people were asking questions and walking around the property. I thought someone might be in trouble.”
The lie comes easily.
No hesitation. No scramble for words.
“You thought someone might be in trouble,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“So you decided to follow us through several turns and off the highway.”
“I panicked.” Her voice breaks on the final word.
More tears track down her cheeks.
“I saw all those cars and I didn’t know what was happening. I thought you were trying to hurt me.”
She looks at me as she says it.
Appealing to me woman to woman.
Lorenzo stops several feet from her.
Rachel turns her attention to him.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know you. I don’t know what you think I did, but I’m sorry.”
He looks at her without speaking.
She lowers her chin and presses trembling fingers to her mouth.
Her shoulders begin to shake.
It would be convincing if I didn’t know exactly who and what she was.
Up close, I see the small pause between each breath. The way she checks his expression through lowered lashes. The moisture on her cheeks without the swollen eyes or reddening skin that comes with real grief.
Rachel is producing what she thinks he wants to see.
A frightened woman. A victim.
Lorenzo’s face gives her nothing.
“I didn’t mean to follow you,” she says. “I only wanted to know why you were looking for me.”
“You know why,” he says.
His voice is quiet.
Her shoulders still.
Only for a fraction of a second.