You're paying $3,200 a month starting today or my people padlock the door, my twenty-seven-year-old son, Tyler, announced at six in the morning, stepping past me into my small rental apartment wi...
The Super 8 motor lodge on the outskirts of the city felt like a relic from another era. Peeling paint, a faint smell of chlorine from the abandoned pool, and cracked asphalt in the parking lot. Our room was on the second floor, overlooking a highway that hummed with a ceaseless, indifferent drone. I had paid cash, leaving no trace. Lily lay curled on one of the beds, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep, her breathing still shallow.
I was boiling water for instant coffee when the door exploded inward. The sound was deafening, splintering wood tearing from the frame. Marcus Kane stood in the doorway, his face a mask of rage, a heavy handgun pointed directly at my chest. Behind him, three other burly men, syndicate hitmen, fanned out, their weapons glinting in the dim motel light.
“Evelyn Garrett,” Marcus growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve been talking too much.”
He lunged forward, grabbing me by the arm, slamming me against the flimsy motel room wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me. The hot coffee cup clattered to the floor, splashing across the threadbare carpet.
“Where is it?” he demanded, pressing the barrel of his gun hard against my temple. “The $180,000. And what have you told the feds?”
My mind raced. He believed the forum posts. He thought I was an informant, holding Tyler’s money. Lily screamed from the bed, her voice a raw, terrified sound. One of the hitmen turned towards her, his weapon cocked.
“Don’t touch her!” I yelled, struggling against Marcus’s grip. My throat was tight with terror, but a fierce protective instinct surged through me. “I haven’t told anyone anything!”
“Liar!” Marcus spat, pressing the gun harder. “We know you’ve been leaking information. The old man, Cross, he knows you’re holding Tyler’s money. And he knows you’re talking to federal agents.”
“I’m not!” I gasped, the words tumbling out. “Tyler is the leak! He’s framing me! He’s the one who stole the money from Cross!”
Marcus laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound. “Yeah, right. Tyler’s in debt. He’s not stupid enough to cross Cross. You, however… you’re desperate. And you’re trying to play us.”
“I have proof!” I screamed, desperation lending me strength. “Hard proof! On my laptop! Tyler orchestrated all of this! He stole Cross’s money and blamed it on me! He’s been planning this for years! The dark-web forum posts! The old archives!”
Marcus hesitated, his grip on me loosening slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. The other hitmen exchanged glances. The idea of Tyler betraying their boss was a seed of doubt they couldn’t ignore, planted by Beatrice’s earlier visit to Silas.
“What proof?” Marcus demanded, still holding the gun on me, but his voice was less certain now. He looked at the laptop on the small desk in the corner of the room.
“It’s all there,” I insisted, my voice shaking but firm. “Everything he planned. How he stole from Cross. How he planned to frame me as an informant. Give me five minutes. You’ll see.”
Lily’s cries continued, a heartbreaking sound in the tense silence. Marcus looked from me to the laptop, then back to Lily. His expression was still hard, but the pure murderous intent had softened into suspicion. He was a collector, not a mindless killer, and if Tyler had played them, that was a different game entirely.
“Alright,” Marcus finally grunted, slowly lowering his gun. He nodded to one of his men. “Grab the laptop. And keep an eye on her. If this is a trick, Evelyn, you’re dead.”
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