The neon buzz of the desert motel sign hummed like a warning.
Jack stepped onto the balcony with two Styrofoam cups of black coffee.
Vesper sat cross-legged on the bed, staring out the window, hair still damp from a stolen shower. “Smells like battery acid."
“Compliments of Room 8's vending machine," Jack muttered.
He handed her a cup.
Then a knock.
Three soft raps. A pause. Two more.
Jack froze.
Only one person used that knock.
He opened the door.
Lana stood there.
Hair windblown. Eyes red. Holding a photo frame with shattered glass.
“Jack," she whispered.
“What the hell—how did you find—"
She stepped in without permission. “You drained the savings account. Your name still flags the bank."
He shut the door. “You tracked me across three states?"
“I needed to see you."
Her
