The " Neon Light" motel she described was even grimmer up close. It was nearly midnight by the time Eric’s tires screeched into the cracked asphalt lot. The place looked like it had seen better days decades ago; now, it was just a graveyard for broken dreams and people who were hiding from life and its troubles.
My heart was hammer-drilling against my ribs as we ran toward the front desk. "Room number. Now," Eric demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
The receptionist, a man who looked like he hadn't slept since the nineties, started to protest about privacy policies. I was too anxious and worried to play nice. What if she had done something crazy? What if we were too late?
Eric didn't waste time persuading. He leaned over the counter, his shadow eclipsing the small man. "Give us
