Chapter Thirteen


She wondered where he lived. She bet it was a disgusting hole underneath a rock. A dirt cave he decorated in children’s bones and chicken legs, like Baba Yaga.

He led her to a motel. Not cheap. Not nice. Just a thing. A place. An anonymous hidey hole squirreled away in an odd corner of the city.

“This is where you live?” she asked, trying to keep her nose from crinkling.

“No,” he said simply.

And her heart dropped. How was she to lead police triumphantly to his home if they weren’t going there? She had worked hard on memorizing the way, the street numbers, but they were just In The Middle Of Nowhere, USA.

“Do you . . . stay here often?”

He stopped and dropped her wrist abruptly. The look in his eyes made her swallow. Hard.

“I don’t bring people to my home and I don’t answer questions. Do you understand?”

She nodded. He was suspicious. She was losing him. She knit her fingers together and bit her lower lip.

“I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m nervous. This isn’t . .
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