Chapter 2 - THE FIRST SHADOW
The Starlight Motel was the kind of place where the neon sign buzzed so loud it kept you awake, the carpet had more stains than patterns, and the front desk clerk didn’t ask for ID—just $40 cash and a promise not to “break anything or bring cops around.” I took Room 17, the one farthest from the office, its window facing the overgrown field behind the motel, and locked the deadbolt twice, shoving a chair under the doorknob for good measure. For three years in prison, I’d slept with one eye open, learned to tell when someone was standing outside my cell by the way the floor creaked, and old habits didn’t die easy. I dumped the files on the lumpy bed, spread them out like a puzzle, and picked up the burner phone again, scrolling for the PI’s number—M. Reed, 555-0187.
It rang four times before going to voicemail, a woman’s voice sharp and tired: You’ve reached Maggie Reed. If this is about the Dennis case, don’t leave a message. They’re listening. Meet me at the old diner on Main Street at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Sit in the back booth. Order coffee black. I stared at the phone, my heart hammering. She knew. She knew I was out, knew I had the files, knew they were watching. I set the phone on the nightstand, grabbed the forensic analyst’s report, and started reading through it again, marking every line that proved the signatures were fake—the slant of the “F” is wrong, the crossbar of the “t” is too high, no natural variation between signatures, all identical, meaning they were traced. I was halfway through the third page when the lights flickered once, twice, then went out completely.
The room went pitch black, the only light coming from the neon sign outside, casting pink and blue streaks across the walls. I froze, hand reaching for the metal lamp on the nightstand, the only weapon I had. For a second, there was no sound but the buzz of the sign and my own breathing, then I heard it: soft, slow footsteps on the gravel outside my window, getting closer, then stopping right outside the glass. My grip on the lamp tightened so hard my knuckles turned white, and I held my breath, waiting for the window to shatter, for someone to kick the door in. But nothing happened. The footsteps stood there for 30 seconds, then turned and walked away, fading into the dark.
I didn’t move for 10 minutes, then flipped the light switch—nothing, the whole motel was out. I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and checked the window: no one there, but in the dirt below the sill, a single footprint, size 12, the tread matching the work boots Carter had worn since we were teenagers. I felt sick. They’d followed me from the storage unit. They knew where I was. I stuffed all the files back into the backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and climbed out the window, dropping into the tall grass below, not stopping until I was two blocks away, hiding in the alley behind the laundromat, gasping for air.
I was leaning against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath, when the burner phone in my pocket buzzed once, a text from an unknown number: He’s alive. But they’re both hunting you. Don’t trust anyone with a badge. Don’t go to the police. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking. He’s alive. My dad. The groundskeeper had said he wasn’t buried at Pinecrest, the PI’s text had said they tried to kill him, and now this—someone was confirming it. I typed back: Who is this? How do you know my dad? Three dots popped up immediately, then disappeared, then popped up again, then a single text came through: I’m the one who pulled him out of the house the night they tried to kill him. Meet me at the diner tomorrow. Back booth. I’ll be the one with the red baseball cap. Don’t be late. And if you see Carter or Reagan, run.
May you like
The lights came back on then, the laundromat’s fluorescent signs flickering to life, and I slid down the wall to the concrete, my head in my hands. For three years, I’d thought my worst nightmare was being locked up for a crime I didn’t commit, losing my dad, losing my home. But this was worse: my dad was alive, but hiding, and the people who’d framed me, who’d tried to kill him, would stop at nothing to make sure we both stayed quiet. I thought of Reagan’s cold smile when she’d told me my dad was dead, Carter’s laugh when he’d called me an ex-con, the mayor’s face on the billboard at the edge of town—Re-Elect Mayor Hale: Keeping Silver Lake Safe. Safe for who? For the crooks who ran it, that’s who.
I stayed in the alley until the sun came up, watching the street, every car that passed making me flinch, every person walking by making me reach for the lamp I’d still clutched in my hand. When the sky turned pink over the rooftops, I stood up, brushed the dirt off my jeans, and started walking toward Main Street, toward the diner, toward the woman who might hold the key to getting my life back—and getting my dad back too. I didn’t know what I was walking into, didn’t know if it was a trap, but I didn’t have a choice. For three years, I’d let them push me around, take everything from me. Not anymore.
