Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 105921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
"What if I kill him for you?" I glanced her way with a raised eyebrow. She thought I was kidding. I wasn't. I was dying to beat the crap out of the guy for so many reasons.
"Not a great idea. Pretty sure they'd hold you for more than two days for that. No sense in losing everything just for the fun of murdering Elliott." She let out a sigh. "Though it would solve a lot of problems." Another sigh. "And it would break Thatcher's heart."
"Not August's?" I asked.
"Maybe August's a little. He doesn't really remember living with his dad. And in the last few years, Elliott has been around less than he was when we first divorced. Lots of broken dates with the kids. A million excuses. August is a practical kid. He's got a good read on his dad. Thatcher still hopes Elliott is going to step up."
"Poor kid." It didn't sound like Elliott Hall was the 'stepping-up' kind of guy.
"Yeah." She stared out the window at the passing scenery. "So, tell me about Griffen coming home after fifteen years. How long has he been married to Hope?"
Sensing that she was ready to change the subject, I launched into the story of the prodigal son's return, starting with murder and ending in true love. Scarlett settled back in the cushy seat, reaching across the center console to rest her hand on my arm, her fingers stroking absentmindedly over my skin, sending shivers of contented pleasure down my spine.
When the story was done, we fell into a companionable silence, watching the miles race by as we moved steadily north to Kentucky. Floyd texted twice, both times letting us know Thatcher's phone hadn't moved from a tight radius around a motel east of town.
We found the motel without any trouble, rolling by slowly, checking it out. The place was run down, with rusted gutters and faded paint, the parking lot crumbling into the weeds. Scarlett sucked in a breath as she spotted something.
"The idiot is driving his own car." Under her breath, she muttered, "At least that makes it easier."
"We've got him now. Just have to grab Thatcher and we can head home."
I should have kept my mouth shut. I already knew nothing is ever that simple.
We weren't the only ones who'd managed to track down Elliott Hall.
And getting Thatcher clear of his father's trouble was going to be a lot trickier than we'd planned.
Chapter Thirty-Two
SCARLETT
Tenn pulled the SUV around the side of the motel, parking next to a dumpster. Smart. The SUV blended in just fine on the freeway, but it would stick out among the aging vehicles in the motel parking lot. On the far side of the dumpster, no one pulling into the motel would see it but we could get to it quickly. He reached into the back seat to grab something. I couldn't quite see what it was and was too wound up to ask.
Thatcher could be only a few feet away. "What if he isn't here?" I whispered as we made our way around to the front of the motel. I passed the first room slowly, trying to glance through the curtains without being obvious about it. A shabby motel room, bed unmade. No personal belongings in sight. Inconclusive.
"We'll find him," Tenn promised, his eyes scanning the parking lot. Thatcher had to be somewhere nearby. Either in his room or within a two-block radius if the mysterious Floyd was as good as Hawk said he was. My heart beat faster just knowing we were close. The next room had its curtains wide open. The third's were completely closed, giving us no way to see inside.
At the fourth, I stopped to tie my shoe, leaning down and peering through the bottom half of the gap between the curtains. A green backpack sewn with gaming patches caught my eye. I knew that backpack. Switching to my other sneaker, I tilted my head to peer deeper into the room, my heart racing so fast it thundered in my ears. He was so close I could almost feel him in my arms.
"This is it," I murmured. For a second, I thought I caught movement. The shift of a shadow, maybe. Something. I waited but didn't see anything else. Standing, I knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
Still nothing. Crap. My stomach turned a little, the letdown painful after the sudden surge of hope.
"Try this." Tenn pulled my little zippered case of lock-picking tools from his back pocket.
"I can't pick this lock," I protested. True, the doors had old-fashioned keyed locks, but surely, they were beyond my skill level. I wasn't a master criminal and there's a big difference between a lockbox lock and the deadbolt on a motel room door.
Tenn wasn't convinced. "You picked the lock on the cottage and it's a lot newer than this one."