The guy in the chair looked like a crash test dummy that had failed the audition. His head lolled, his shirt clung damp with either rain or fear—or both—and his wrists were zip-tied to the armrests like he was about to disappear in a very underfunded magic trick.
Norma, perched in a motel desk chair like it was a throne on loan from hell, sipped burnt coffee from a chipped ceramic mug and stared him down like she was deciding which piece of him to peel first.
"All right, sunshine," she said, voice molasses-slow but sharp enough to cut glass. "We're gonna play a game. Twenty questions. Except I ask all of 'em, and if you lie, I let Blondie there swing that skillet at your head again."
Madeline stood near the door, arms folded, face unreadable.
Maggie was entirely unbothered, poking arou
