The motel room stank, like something rotten and wet lived in the curtains. Coffee burnt into the carpet, sour in the air. The TV spit static—loud, too loud—flashing ugly white light over peeling wallpaper. Salt wind pushed through the cracked window, sticky, like fingers on her skin.

Camille sat frozen on the sagging bed. Back stiff. Heart banging so wild she thought—no, she knew—it might stop her dead. Her hands stuck to the blanket, sweat glueing her palms.

Tara’s USB—God, that stupid USB—A witness, after Ellie. The words crawled inside her skull like roaches. Then that text again: The witness is closer than you think.

Ellie’s with the neighbor. She’s...