We were halfway through checking out when the girl at the front desk — the one with the stitched owl on her apron — tilted her head like she was listening to something in the walls. I had on my big black sunglasses, the kind that made me look more mysterious than I was, and was flipping through an old book I found in the motel's junk shelf. It was about owl spirits — half folklore, half fever dream — and I was halfway through a tale about barn owls delivering messages from the underworld when her voice cut in.
"You two were the performers last night, right?" she asked, voice low but deliberate, like she was pulling a string and waiting to see what unraveled.
Kaito didn't answer right away. He tilted his head, brows ticking up in mock surprise, then gave the kind of nod that said he already knew she knew. "Yeah," he said finally, voice calm and easy. "Why?"
She leaned in and looked around first — like she was sharing a secret meant for ears, not echoes. But there was no one else around. Just me, Kaito, and her. That made the whisper feel even heavier.
"We got a call," she said. "Family on the edge of town said they booked a set. Said their entertainers never showed. They're offering twenty thousand dollars to fill in."
Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. In this economy, in this decade? That was money folks got married or killed for. My heart hiccupped.
I glanced at Kaito. He didn't say anything, but I caught that look — the one that said he was remembering last night's talk, the one where we promised to slow down, maybe take a break, breathe like normal people. I could see it in his jaw, the hesitation.
But me? I was already doing the math. Twenty grand meant a vacation that didn't have to be a maybe. That was future quiet. Future safety. Future escape.
"Future vacation money," I whispered, half-grinning.
Kaito sighed through his nose but didn't argue.
The girl slid a handwritten address across the counter with a grin so giddy you'd think she'd just won a county fair prize. Her eyes sparkled, cheeks pink with the thrill of something she wasn't saying out loud.
Kaito, on the other hand, looked like a man being handed a shovel he didn't ask for. His mouth was set in that quiet, resigned line he wore whenever he got a job he didn't want but couldn't say no to — not without hurting someone else.
The girl added, real sweet, that we should eat something first — she had eggs on the skillet and toast still warm. Said it was the least she could offer since the family calling us didn't have the room to house guests properly.
Then she said something that made me blink. She offered us up to three weeks' stay, free of charge, no questions asked.
I frowned, unsure if it was generosity or a setup. "Why so generous?"
She just smiled like the question didn't matter. Like she already knew what we'd say. Kaito looked like he wanted to say no. His eyes lingered on me, on the fatigue still hiding behind my sunglasses. Then he nodded. "Deal."
We were in the parking lot, back of the van wide open as Kaito and I unpacked what we needed — the instruments, the silk rigging, the sound box that always buzzed like it knew too much. He handed me my sequined bag and I caught the edge of a look on his face. The same one he wore before a storm hit — still, but full of pressure.
"You really wanna do this one?" he asked, setting down the chime hooks.
"Not particularly," I said, brushing dust off the travel case. "But we both know gigs like this don't drop from the sky."
He gave a grunt, then started tuning his handheld bells. "What are you thinking for your set?"
"Something soft," I said. "Maybe the white kimono and the blue veil. Whisper tones and floating silk. Pull them in before you shake them loose."
"I'll follow with iron chimes and the old drone set. Echo and tremble. Keep it classic."
We paused, both listening to the air around us. Too quiet, too watching.
"Still feels like a trap," I muttered.
He bent near my ear, voice dry. "Doesn't mean we can't walk in with our own bait."
I gave him a slow grin and tucked the address into my bag. "Fine. We'll do it. But I'm asking for a better room next time. One with fewer judgmental birds."