POV: Hunter
The motel room was a box of stale air and despair. Tessa cried herself into an exhausted sleep on one of the double beds, her breath hitching even in her dreams. Hunter sat on the edge of the other bed, his back to her, staring at the closed door.
Riley Kane. Former Army Intelligence. She's not just curious. She's engaged. Why? What's her angle?
He replayed her words. 'You're going to wonder who in your life is named 'M.'' She had said it to provoke a reaction, to see if Tessa flinched. Tessa hadn't. She'd just looked confused. That either meant she was innocent, or she was a world-class liar.
He needed data. He couldn't trust the police. He couldn't trust his wife. He was alone behind enemy lines, and the enemy was his own life.
The paper bag of toiletries sat on the cheap dresser. He walked over and emptied it. Toothbrushes, travel-sized toothpaste, a comb, two small bars of soap. And at the bottom, tucked beneath it all, a plain white business card.
No name. No title. Just a phone number handwritten in crisp, block numerals.
Her number. A direct line.
His heart beat faster. This wasn't neighborly help. This was an offer. Or a trap.
He pocketed the card. He needed to move. The police would be focused on the dead men, trying to ID them, tracing the burner phone. That would take time. He had a narrow window to act before the official investigation boxed him in.
First, he needed to see the financial records Tessa had been hiding. He had online access to their shared accounts, but she'd been using secret transfers. She'd have a separate login, or she'd deleted the history. His laptop was at the house, in the crime scene.
But his phone had a banking app. He opened it, logging into the main joint account. The balance was lower than it should be, but not catastrophically so. She'd been smart, taking smaller amounts over time.
He navigated to the transfer history. The last two months showed normal bills, groceries, a transfer to their savings… and a recurring weekly payment he didn't recognize. Every Friday, $2,000 was sent to an account labeled "MSH Holdings."
MSH. Morgan Sophia Henderson. Her mother's maiden name.
His finger hovered over the screen. $2,000 a week. For how long? He felt sick. That was their vacation fund. The fund for the baby room they'd talked about starting next year.
A soft knock at the motel room door made him jump.
He instantly killed his phone screen and stood up, his body tense. He peered through the peephole.
Sheriff Miller stood there, looking even more tired than before.
Hunter opened the door a crack. "Sheriff? Is everything okay?"
"Can I come in, son? Got an update. Don't want to do it in the hall."
Hunter stepped back, letting him in. Miller's eyes flicked to the sleeping Tessa, then back to Hunter. He kept his voice low.
"We got a preliminary on that burner phone. The 'M' contact? The number is a prepaid, bought for cash at a big-box store three states over. Dead end. But the text was sent from a cell tower right here in town. So 'M' is local."
Hunter kept his face carefully blank. Local. Morgan is local. "I see."
"The map," Miller continued, watching him closely. "The paper is standard printer paper. The ink is a Sharpie, like your neighbor said. We're sending it to the state lab for any fingerprints besides the dead guy's, but that'll take weeks." He sighed. "Look, between you and me? This was a professional hit. They knew what they were doing. And someone who knows you very well helped them. You need to think hard. Is there anyone who has a key to your house? Anyone who's been inside recently? A cleaner? A handyman? A… friend?"
The question hung in the air. The unspoken word: Wife.
"We don't have a cleaner," Hunter said slowly. "I'm handy. We had a plumber last month for a leak. That's it."
Miller nodded, unsatisfied. "We'll be in touch. Don't go back to the house until CSU clears it. Could be a couple days." He turned to leave, then paused. "That Riley Kane. She's a smart one. Sharp. She see anything else, you have her call me direct, okay?"
"Sure."
The sheriff left, closing the door softly.
Hunter stood in the silence, the sheriff's words echoing. 'Someone who knows you very well helped them.'
He looked at Tessa, sleeping fitfully. Then he looked at the business card in his hand.
He had a choice. Wait for the slow wheels of justice, which might never turn correctly if 'M' had money or influence. Or take matters into his own hands.
He made his decision.
He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the shower to mask the sound. He pulled out the business card and his phone. He typed a text to the unknown number.
>> Who are you really?
The reply came in less than thirty seconds.
<< Someone who knows the system won't help you. The man who owned that burner phone? He worked for Sterling Shield. Private military contractor. Look them up. Then meet me. Diner on Main, 6 AM. Come alone.
Hunter stared at the screen. Sterling Shield. The name meant nothing to him. But 'private military contractor' meant everything. It meant these weren't just thugs. They were organized, corporate-level dangerous.
And Riley knew who they were.
He had just stepped from one battlefield into another. And the woman next door seemed to be the only one with a map.
Riley reveals the hitmen were employed by a private military contractor called Sterling Shield and summons Hunter to a secret meeting.