Page 113 of Lorenzo

“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.”