Page 34 of You Can Run

Jessica watched him, then let her gaze drift to the rundown motel.

It didn’t exactly scream “safety”. But it was still, and dark, and quiet, and right now that was going to have to be good enough.

Dante stayed in the car for a slow count of ten, his gaze sweeping the lot. Other than an old Ford F-150 near the far fence, they were alone.

“Stay in the car,” he said. “Doors locked. If you see anything you don't like—cruiser, SUV, anyone lingering—you move to the driver's seat and go. Don't wait for me.”

Jessica turned toward him. “Dante, you can barely keep your eyes open. Let me?—”

He was already out of the car.

The gravel shifted under his boots as he crossed the lot, each step heavy as tiredness dragged through his limbs. His back prickled with that familiar, unwelcome awareness. He felt exposed.

In the lobby, a scratched acrylic partition separated the counter from the rest of the room, and behind it sat an elderly man with stringy white hair.

He didn't look up until Dante's shadow crossed the desk.

“One room,” Dante said.

The clerk's eyes lifted, but not to his face. They tracked his arms first, taking in the gang ink, then drifted up to the faded cross tattoo beneath his eye, and then past him, through the glass. To the 'Cuda.

“That's a lot of car for a place like this,” the clerk said, his voice dry and unhurried.

“It gets me where I need to go. How much for the night?”

“Eighty. Twenty more if you're paying cash. Need an ID.”

Dante felt the familiar tightening in his chest. “Left my wallet at a rest stop near Refugio,” he said, pulling a crumpled stack of bills from his pocket and sliding them forward. “This covers the room and your memory.”

The clerk didn't touch the cash right away. His gaze had shifted again, angling past Dante toward the car, where the motel's flickering neon caught the sequins of Jessica's dress.

“The girl,” he said. “She in trouble?”

Dante didn't hesitate. “She's my wife. We've had a long day, and we're not looking to make it longer.”

The man's eyes came back to him, measuring.

Then his hand closed over the money. A small brass key slid across the counter.

“Twelve,” he said. “Back corner. Camera's dead on that side.” A pause. “Keep it quiet.”

“You won't get any trouble from us.”

Dante stepped back out into the night. He didn't like how the clerk had looked at Jessica. He especially didn't like how the car sat in this lot like a fucking signal flare.

He reached the 'Cuda and opened the door. Jessica hadn't moved; she was still angled toward the window, still coiled tight.

“We're in,” he said.

Her eyes flicked toward the lobby, then back to him. “He saw me.”

“He saw money.”

He didn't start the engine. His gaze had dropped to the chain at her throat—the glint of gold resting just below her collarbone. He'd spent two years in a dark garage imagining that ring on her finger.

“Put it on,” he said.

Jessica stilled. “What?”