Page 11 of Broken Ride

He walks away without waiting for a response.

I sit on the tailgate and listen to his boots crunch through the gravel until the sound fades into the larger quiet of the emptying fairground.

My pulse is running faster than it should be. I can't pin it to a single cause, and that's its own kind of warning.

He noticed the mare. He noticed the documents. He noticed me checking under my truck, which means he's been watching me longer and more carefully than I realized.

And he told me. He could've kept that to himself, used the information quietly, filed it away. Instead he put it on the table. Could be honesty. Could be a very specific kind of pressure. I can't tell which. I file the observation somewhere between useful and dangerous and go back to my records.

By the time I drive to the motel, the lot is dark except for a few security lights buzzing against clouds of moths. I park in my usual spot, with the truck facing out. I sit in the cab for half a minute scanning the lot, the walkway, the stairwell, the ice machine alcove. The routine is so embedded I barely register doing it anymore. My body runs the checklist while my mind processes fentanyl metabolites, transit times, Amy's voice saying she'd flagged similar cases internally.

I grab my bag and walk to my room. The door is closed, the electronic lock showing no obvious sign of tampering. I slide the key card through and wait for the light to turn green.

Stepping inside, I close the door, throw the deadbolt, and hook the security chain into place. The room smells like industrial cleaner and stale air conditioning, the same as every motel room on the road.

I drop my bag on the bed. My toiletries kit is on the bathroom counter where I left it this morning, zipped shut, handle facing left. That's how I always leave it.

The handle is still facing left.

The kit is still in the same position on the counter.

I unzip it.

Everything is exactly where I placed it earlier. Toothbrush in the mesh pocket, contacts case beside the travel shampoo.

My hairbrush is bristle-side down.

I always store it bristle-side up. Every time. In every bag. In every motel room since I left. Bristle-side up, handle accessible, the way I grab it when I'm moving fast and my hands are working from muscle memory.

Garrett stored brushes bristle-side down. He said it kept the bristles from collecting lint, said it was the correct way, said it was a small thing and why did it matter so much to me.

Turned them over in our bathroom at home. Turned them over when I left them at his mother's house. Turned them over in hotel rooms on vacation, every single time.

A quiet correction. He noticed how I kept my things. He preferred them kept differently. He would keep adjusting them until I stopped needing to be adjusted.

I pick up the brush and turn it over. I set it bristle-side up.

I zip the bag closed. I carry it to my duffel and put it inside, where it will travel with me tomorrow instead of sitting on a counter in an unlocked room. Then I sit on the edge of the bed with my hands on my knees and wait for the cold wash of adrenaline to drain out of my arms.

The boots were a few nights ago. I left them by the door and found them lined up beside the bed. A small thing, the kind I could have explained away if I'd been willing to work hard enough at the explanation.

Someone opened my room, walked to the bathroom, unzipped my kit, found the brush, turned it over, zipped the kit back up, and left. They touched nothing else. They moved nothing else. The deadbolt is still engaged, which means they either had a key or entered through a window I didn't check.

I stand up and check the window. Locked. Unbroken. The paint on the frame is old and cracked but undisturbed. The connecting door to the adjacent room is locked from my side. I put my ear against it and hear nothing. I wedge the desk chair under the handle anyway.

I drag the dresser across the carpet until it blocks the front door. The legs catch on the thin pile and leave tracks. Housekeeping will notice in the morning. Part of me wonders if barricading a motel room over a hairbrush is the kind of thing that tips from cautious into paranoid. The rest of me remembers that someone got past a deadbolt without leaving a mark. I don't care what housekeeping thinks.

I put my boots by the door, toes pointing the direction I choose, and I turn off the light.

My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. I pick it up, open my contacts, and scroll past the Oklahoma numbers I've blocked over the past year. Different phones, same area code. Same silence when I answered the first ones, before I learned to stop answering. I put the phone down and set my alarm for five.

My breathing stays even. My heartbeat is steady. The training holds because the training always holds. It's the one thing I built that nobody gets to take apart.

Ashcroft's voice, uninvited: 'Patterns are easy to track.'

He wasn't wrong. Someone's been tracking mine since long before he started watching.

Somewhere between midnight and my alarm, my phone vibrates. I'm not asleep, so I reach for it before the second pulse. It's a text from Amy Perez.