Page 4 of Silent Grave

"We can ask him," she said, "but I suspect the only way we'll get the truth is if we talk with Tommy."

"Then we better hurry, because if those federal agents find him first…" Gabriel shook his head grimly. "Everything he knows about your mother's murder, about the corruption, about who's really pulling the strings—it will all disappear with him."

CHAPTER TWO

Sheila's body was a coiled spring as she studied the old motel, which squatted against the desert landscape like a forgotten relic of better times. Its neon sign buzzed weakly in the growing light, half the letters burnt out. The vacancy sign flickered, though from the empty parking lot, vacancy wasn't an issue.

"You sure about this?" Gabriel asked as Sheila pulled into the corner of the lot from which they could watch both the office and the row of rooms.

"The clerk at the last gas station remembered him. Said he was asking about motels." Sheila killed the engine but left the key in the ignition. "This is the only one for twenty miles that takes cash and doesn't ask questions."

They sat in silence, watching. Paint peeled from the motel's wooden siding. A forgotten newspaper tumbled across the lot, caught in the desert wind. The sun was climbing higher, burning away the last traces of night, but the morning remained cold.

Sheila's phone buzzed. Another text from Finn: Star's asking questions. Getting harder to keep her distracted.

She started to type a response, then stopped. What could she say? That she was staking out a fleeing suspect who might know why her mother was murdered? That she was trying to untangle a web of corruption that might involve people they'd trusted for years?

"He's here," Gabriel said softly.

Sheila looked up. A door had opened at the far end of the motel. Tommy Forster stepped out, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He looked terrible—unshaven, clothes wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes. He didn't spot their vehicle as he hurried toward a battered pickup truck, perhaps as little as thirty feet from where Sheila and her father were parked.

"That's not the vehicle he was driving at the truck stop," Gabriel said.

"Must have switched cars." Sheila reached for her door handle. "Ready?"

But before either of them could get out, another vehicle turned into the lot—a black SUV with tinted windows. Tommy saw the approaching vehicle and froze, keys halfway to his truck's door.

"Federal agents," Gabriel muttered. "Damn it."

The SUV parked close to the truck. Sheila watched as Tommy backed away from his truck, looking like a cornered animal. She clenched her hands on the steering wheel, unsure what to do. If the agents got their hands on him first…

The SUV's doors opened. Two men in dark suits emerged, their movements precise, coordinated. Professional. They hadn't drawn weapons yet, but their hands stayed close to their jackets.

Tommy looked toward the desert beyond the motel, clearly calculating his chances of running.

"He's going to bolt," Sheila said. "And if he does, they might shoot him." She reached for her door handle, but her father grabbed her arm.

"Not yet," he said.

"We have to do something!"

He gave her a sharp look, the same kind she'd seen many times before over the years. It meant, Trust me. She clenched her jaw in frustration. They were gambling with a man's life, and besides that, how could she trust him after what he'd kept from her about her mother's death? Did he think she'd just forget about that now that they were working together?

"Federal agents!" one of the men called out. "Thomas Forster, we need you to come with us."

Tommy's eyes darted between the agents, his truck, and the open desert. His hands trembled as he lowered his duffle bag to the ground.

"Show me your credentials," Tommy called back, his voice surprisingly steady.

The men exchanged glances. The taller one reached for his jacket, but Sheila noticed his partner's hand slip inside his coat toward what she suspected wasn't a badge.

"Now, Mr. Forster," the shorter agent said. His tone was pleasant, reasonable. Professional. But something in it raised the hair on Sheila's neck.

That's when Tommy spotted their car. He must have missed it before, camouflaged as it was by the gray, nondescript wall behind it.

The change in his expression was subtle—just a flicker of his eyes, a slight shift in his stance. But Sheila knew he'd seen them. He knew they were there. She reached for her door handle again.

"Not yet," her father murmured.

---