The motel was a low-slung, neon-buzzed wreck on the edge of the state line, the kind of place where people went to become invisible. The air inside the room smelled of lemon bleach and old dust, but to Rhoda, it felt like a fortress because Evan was there.
The adrenaline had finally crashed, leaving her in a state of shivering exhaustion. Evan had been a silent, efficient shadow. He had cleaned her wrists with a gentle touch that made her heart ache, and he had sat on the edge of the bed until her eyes finally succumbed to the weight of the day.
"Sleep," he had whispered, his hand resting on her forehead. "I've got the door."
But the ghost couldn't rest.
Rhoda woke hours later to a room plunged in deep, blue-shadowed moonlight. The bed beside her was cold. The heavy, protective presence that had anchored her was gone.
She bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Evan?"
The room was empty. The only sound was the distant hum of the ice machine outside and the whistle of the wind against the doorframe. She scrambled out of bed and rushed to the door, pulling at the handle.
It wouldn't budge. He had deadbolted it from the outside.
Panic surged in her throat until she saw it: a piece of motel stationery pinned to the pillow where his head should have been. Beside it lay a heavy stack of cash and a burner phone.
She snatched the note, her fingers trembling.
Rhoda,
Miller is a wounded animal, and the police are tracing the blood he left behind. But they won't reach the men at the top—the men who took my father. They have the resources to vanish. I can't let them.
I told you I burned everything for you, and I meant it. But I can't give you a life if I'm always looking over my shoulder for the men who started this. I have the documents from the vault. I'm going to end it tonight so you never have to be collateral again.
If I'm not back by sunrise, don't wait. There's a grey sedan in the back lot, stall 14. The keys are magnetic, tucked behind the rear left wheel well. Take the back roads to the city in the phone's GPS. There's a man there named Marcus who owes me his life. He'll give you a new name.
I spent a year watching you because I wanted to know you. I'm leaving now because I want you to live.
Don't look for me.
Rhoda dropped the paper, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She looked at the door, then at the cash. He had locked her in to keep her safe from Miller and the cops, but he had walked right back into the fire for a father who was already gone.
She rushed to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain just enough to see the empty parking lot. The city skyline flickered in the distance, a graveyard of secrets.
"You idiot," she whispered against the glass, her forehead resting on the cool pane. "You think I want a new name without you?"
She looked at the burner phone. It was already vibrating. Not a call, but a text from an unknown number.
"He's at the shipyard. If you want to see him breathe one last time, come alone. - M"
Miller.
Evan had gone for the kill, but he'd underestimated how much Miller was willing to burn to get even. The trap was set, and the man who had spent a year protecting her was walking straight into it.
The shipyard was a skeletal maze of rusted shipping containers and screeching cranes, haunted by the smell of salt and rot. Rhoda's heart felt like it was going to burst through her ribs as she stumbled through the shadows. She followed the GPS on the burner phone, her mind screaming Evan's name, her vision blurred by tears of pure, unadulterated terror.
She reached the designated warehouse, the doors groaning open as if they'd been waiting for her.
"Evan!" she cried out, her voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "Evan, I'm here!"
Silence.
Then, the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping emerged from the darkness behind a stack of crates. Rhoda spun around, her breath hitching.
Miller stepped into a pool of jaundiced light. He looked horrific— his face pale with amusement and twisted with a feverish, murderous rage. He wasn't alone. Jonah and Cal were flanking him, their weapons drawn and ready.
"You really are a romantic, aren't you, Rhoda?" Miller sneered. He held up a device—the one that had sent the text. "Mercer isn't here. He's halfway across town trying to play hero with those documents. I just needed to push the right button to bring the key back to me."
"It was a trap," she whispered, her knees nearly giving out.
"The oldest one in the book," Miller said, stepping closer. "Evan thinks he's the only one who knows your heart. But I knew exactly what would bring you running. Now, give me the phone."
"No," Rhoda said, her voice shaking but defiant.
"Call him," Miller commanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous snarl. "Call him and tell him you're here. Tell him if he doesn't bring those documents
to this shipyard in twenty minutes, I'm going to start taking pieces of you home with me."
"I won't," she spat.
She wouldn't be the reason he walked into another slaughter. "I'll never call him for you."
"I was hoping you'd say that," Miller whispered.
Rhoda lunged for the door, a desperate, frantic attempt to escape, but she wasn't fast enough. She managed to rake her nails across Jonah's face, a scream tearing from her throat as she fought with the strength of someone who had nothing left to lose.
"Get off me!" she shrieked, kicking wildly.
Miller lost his patience. He stepped forward, his fist connecting with her temple in a sickening, heavy thud.
The world tilted on its axis. The overhead lights smeared into long, white streaks, and the cold concrete floor rose up to meet her. The last thing she felt was the rough grip of Miller's hand on her hair as he hauled her upright.
"He'll come for you anyway," Miller's voice sounded like it was underwater. "He can't help himself. And when he does, I'm going to make him watch."
Then, the darkness claimed her completely