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He motions for me to follow him and picks up his pace, jogging soundlessly across the parking lot to where the concrete remains of a vacant building sit beside the motel.
A portion of yellow caution tape surrounds the bare bones of the building, no glass in any of the windows. It reminds me of a basic Lego construction—walls and a roof.
Once we turn the corner of the concrete building, the air shifts, and the man shoves me against the rough surface, covering my back with his body. He hisses, “Don’t move or speak.”
It goes against everything ingrained in me to obey him. I barely suppress the impulse to shove back and get some fucking answers already. But the sight I catch in my periphery has me going stock-still.
The man’s gone transparent once again, except now, where our clothing touches has made me follow suit, too. I watch it spread until I can’t see my own body.
This man has made me turn invisible.
Holy fuck. Panic has my heart thundering inside my chest, but before I can act on it, a black SUV rolls down the road toward us.
There’s only one car here aside from mine: Flynn’s, the night clerk. From what Mac told me last night, Flynn is “deaf as fuck, so if you need something, wait until Paula starts her shift at six.”
And the only other person staying at the motel aside from me is Deiter, who Mac said, “gets too drunk to function and sleeps it off here, because otherwise, his wife’ll kick him out for it.” But since Mac mentioned he got his driver’s license revoked for too many DUIs, the guy walks here.
A coil of unease grows in the pit of my stomach as I track the SUV. No headlights. Dark-tinted windows make it impossible to determine who’s inside. If this isn’t a goddamn sign that something bad’s about to happen, I don’t know what is.
The crunch of gravel sounds as it pulls into the parking lot. It draws to a stop beside where my car is parked, putting it parallel to the window of my motel room. Silence descends for a moment before all hell breaks loose.
Rapid gunfire shatters my motel room window, dousing it in bullets before turning their attention to my car.
Bullets ping, ping, ping against the armored body of my Chevelle. I clench my jaw so tightly my molars begin to ache. Who the fuck would do this?
My windows take a goddamn barrage of bullets, and I expect them to shatter at any moment, especially since my run-flats are like motherfucking pancakes. But they surprise me when they don’t. They’re spiderwebbed as fuck, but they’re still intact.
As if on cue, the gunfire from the vehicle stops and it pulls out of the parking lot and speeds away.
Once it’s gone, leaving an eerie silence behind, the man moves away from me. When I turn to face him, he’s staring down the road in the direction the SUV went.
“Safe to say they delivered a strong warning.”
“No shit.” My dry response gets no reaction from him. Then again, I didn’t really expect one.
When he pins me with that unsettling gaze, an ominous sensation floods me. He withdraws a business card from his pocket and hands it to me. I accept it without breaking eye contact.
“If you really want to know the circumstances surrounding your sister’s death.”
I flick my eyes to the card. On it is distinct, bold lettering, and an older Mustang is pictured. Otis Brothers Salvage Yard. Below it in slightly smaller print is, Mac Ford, Owner, along with an address, email, and phone number.
On the back is a map, showing where the salvage yard is located. Instantly, I recognize that it’s less than a mile away from the road this motel’s on.
I part my lips to ask the man how the hell Mac would be able to help me, only to realize I’m now alone. I whip my head around, searching for sight of him before realizing he’s likely gone invisible to escape detection.
“The fuck?!” a groggy voice, thick with a Southern accent, calls out.
I don’t bother responding. I sprint to my car, keys already in hand. Clicking the key fob I’m relieved still works, I tug open the door. I knock my sleeve-covered elbow against the window and the spiderwebbed glass showers the gravel parking lot.
With a swift movement, I slide behind the wheel. The bulk of my windshield is a clusterfuck, but at least I have enough of a clear portion to see through on my side.
When I crank the engine and the familiar sound greets me, a fraction of my unease fades. But only a fraction.
The business card practically singes my palm as I work to navigate my Chevelle and its fucked-up tires out of the lot and onto the road.
The concise directions lead me straight to the salvage yard. I stop outside and inspect the large fence surrounding the property. With barbwire at the very top, the fence looks like it was installed a while ago but is still in good shape and structurally sound.
A sign posted beside the open gated entrance says it’s open every day except Sunday, hours starting as early as seven a.m.
