Chapter 3 - The Toll of the Wire
The leather portfolio was unlatched. I didn't touch it immediately; instead, I stood over the writing desk, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my dark jacket, feeling the rough wool of my sweater against my chest. The air conditioning unit hummed softly beneath the window, blowing a thin, chilled current across the hardwood floor.
My reflection stared back at me from the darkened glass of the window pane—a gaunt face, sunken eyes, and the dark shadow of a beard I hadn't trimmed since we crossed the state line three days ago.
The landline phone beside the portfolio blinked a single amber light. Not ringing—just a steady, mute pulse indicating an active line.
I reached out, my thumb and forefinger lifting the heavy black handset to my ear. There was no dial tone. Only the low, heavy static of a secure open channel, like waves hitting a distant shore.
"Ethan," a voice said.
The word was clear, level, and entirely devoid of surprise. It belonged to Arthur Vance—not my father, but the man who had signed my termination papers three years ago before scrubbing my name from every server between here and the coast.
"You're late," Arthur continued through the earpiece, the cadence measured and smooth. "Patricia had strict instructions to turn away anyone without a matching profile. She must have seen the corporate override on the secondary tab."
I kept my eyes fixed on the bruised red roses resting on the entryway console across the room. A single dark petal detached itself from the brown paper and drifted down, landing softly on the wood.
"She tried," I said, my voice flat. "The boy made her look."
A faint, dry chuckle came through the wire. "Marcus always was too thorough for his own good. He misses details in front of him because he's too busy hunting for the ones that are hidden. Listen to me carefully, Ethan. You shouldn't have brought the girl into the city. People are looking at the toll cameras."
"They're looking at empty air," I said, tightening my grip on the plastic receiver until my knuckles ached. "We haven't used the plates since the county line."
"The plates don't matter anymore," Arthur replied, his tone hardening just enough to strip away the pretense of conversation. "The reservation at the grand is flagged by three different agencies as of twenty minutes ago. You have until dawn before the local detachment realizes whose credit card was billed for that suite."
"I didn't use a card."
"I know," Arthur said softly. "I did. Get some sleep, Ethan. You're going to need it."
May you like
The line clicked dead, leaving a high-pitched hiss in my ear. I lowered the handset back onto the cradle, the plastic meeting the base with a sharp, final click. I walked over to the console, picked up the crushed bouquet of roses by their brown paper wrapping, and tossed them straight into the bronze wastebasket by the door.
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