The inside of Miss Munoz's house was dripping with rich reds and purples and it was filled with smoky incense. Religious figurines dotted around the house and it seemed like a thousand photos littered the walls. The sticks of furniture were all overstuffed and expensive-looking. Miranda teetered between feeling right at home and painfully out of place.
“So, what does Delaney want?” Even when she spoke, her words had a gorgeous lilt to them. Her lips pursed as she regarded Miranda with a wrinkled nose. “First time he's sent a puta.”
“I'm not a whore.” She resisted the urge to snarl. This woman was involved with a less-than-delightful man. She had plenty of things to be bitter and rude about. Well, probably plenty of things. Miranda still hadn't scratched off the thought that Francesca was fully as bad as Pete.
“Whatever. What's he want?” The woman sniffed and repositioned a candlestick on her dining room table. Now, she reused to look at Miranda. “I already paid rent and his cut of the girls' pay is in the bank.”
Miranda's mind snipped at the last sentence. Rent and girls' pay? A few conclusions pounced on her thoughts. Vaguely, she wondered if Francesca's hostility was thanks to the presumed connection with Pete. She shook her head, feeling the air needed to be cleared. “I think you've misunderstood. I'm not here for Pete.”
For a split second, Francesca's hazel brown eyes widened. Redness tinged just beneath her cheeks and her lips thinned. She had said too much, she realized. Miranda tensed, waiting for her reaction. However, the woman wasn't explosive. Instead, her voice became scarily quiet as she demanded, “Who are you?”
Miranda's mouth opened to reply, but something out the window caught her eye. Without thinking, her gaze flicked to the window, spotting Tyler just beyond. Her mouth snapped shut, instantly. What the hell was he doing? Didn't he trust her to take care of this alone?
Francesca noticed where she looked, though. Her attention snapped to the window, the heat draining from her face.
“What the fuck is this?” The woman grabbed her purse, which lay across the dining room table. Her hand delved into the folds, withdrawing a small handgun. Miranda's heart thudded against her rib cage.
Miranda raised her hands, taking a step closer to Francesca. “Hey, hey, no, we're not here to–”
The thunder of the gun rang through the air. A small hole appeared in the ceiling above Francesca's head. Miranda stopped still as plaster pattered down onto the other woman's head. Her body wouldn't move, from fear or survival instincts.
In the tense silence, the window flew open. Tyler scrambled into the room and charged the woman with the gun.
Miranda screamed, “Tyler!”
“Tyler?” Francesca sharply inhaled, her features paling. Her gun lowered, just slightly. “Tyler Ferguson?”
“Yeah,” Tyler grunted, his eyes swinging from Francesca to Miranda. His muscles tensed, prepared to pounce or dodge should Francesca's gun go off. They still weren't sure where her loyalty leaned.
Silence filled the air as the woman tried to make sense of the ghost in her house. She paled considerably, her hand rushing to form the cross above her breast, before her limp grasp on her gun tightened. Francesca whipped it back up, leveling the barrel at Tyler's face. “But you're supposed to be dead!”
He stared at the gun, his gaze hardening. “Guess I didn't get the memo.”
“Get out, now,” gasped Francesca, swinging the barrel of the gun toward the front door. She quickly flicked it back to Tyler, before swinging it toward Miranda. The tip of the barrel trembled as her fingers fidgeted against the grip. “I don't need Pete finding you here and punishing me.”
Miranda raised her hands, attempting to brush the agitation out of the room. She took a step forward, her voice soft and level, “Can we just–”
The thunder of the gun cut Miranda off. Francesca shrieked, “Out!”
Tyler and Miranda rushed back through the house and out the front door. Francesca charged in their wake. As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, she slammed the door shut. The click and clank of locks and deadbolts clattered after their exit.
The two didn't dally. They started off down the block, Tyler leading Miranda. She mindlessly followed him as her brain churned and whirled. Doubt of Francesca's partnership with Pete took root in her head. From the sounds of it, Francesca was a victim in her own right. Her fingers clenched into fists as she and Tyler ducked between two houses.
They ended up on a small paved road – an alleyway – behind the line of homes. He led her to the sedan, parked a few yards away from Francesca's backyard. Neither exchanged a word as they both climbed into the car and settled. Miranda glared out her window, watching the house dwindle in the distance as Tyler drove them away.
* * *
The tension in the air clung to Miranda and Tyler like cobwebs. Their drive back to the motel was lengthy and silent, weighed down by worry and frustration. As soon as they pulled into the motel's parking lot, both jumped out of the vehicle. She startled, hearing him slam the door so hard the car groaned on its wheels. Before she could ask Tyler what his problem was, he stormed from the car to the motel room, only pausing to unlock the door.
She jogged after him, her brow pinched with confusion. What in the world did he have to be angry about? The moment she closed the door behind her, Tyler turned sharply on his heel. Even across the room, his eyes blazed with concern and annoyance. “We shouldn't have gone there. Now she's going to blow our cover before it's time to leave.”
“I don't think she will,” she replied softly, trying to swallow down her nervousness. She took a step closer, the pressure between her and Tyler becoming electric. The queasy worry that swam through her guts was clamped down on.
“What are you talking about?” Tyler's hand shot to his head, his fingers digging into his hair. Did Miranda not see it? Francesca was in cahoots with Pete. The woman would sooner dish them up on a silver platter than help them. He couldn't let that happen to Miranda. “She'll cover her ass like any other self-serving bitch.”
Miranda narrowed her gaze at him, her nose wrinkling with distaste. Her lips thinned to a disagreeable, firm line.
Her disapproving chill punctured the heat in Tyler's thoughts. He pinned her with a curious, and annoyed, glare. “What?”
“You're wrong,” she nearly growled the words out. Her heart thrummed in her chest and her nails bit into her palms. White-hot, intense anger – coupled with a sharp and sullen pain – whipped through her thoughts.
“I know this business better than you, Mir.” Tyler nearly spat the words out as bile climbed up into his throat. Memories danced across his mind's eye. Blood, guts, screaming, begging. Another chill settled into his bones, one made of disappointment and shame in himself. He shook the pity party from his head and grunted, “No, trust me. She's going to turn us in.”
Through her pursed lips, Miranda asserted, “I still think you're wrong.”
“Oh? Why's that?” Tyler tried to bite down on the sarcastic tinge in his voice, but it was a futile effort.
Why was he wrong? Miranda's thoughts tilted and twirled. Francesca let them run, though Pete would undoubtedly be enraged about that course of action. If she were genuinely working with him, wouldn't she secure his enemy? “If that was the case, she wouldn't have chased us out. She would've called Pete ASAP and gotten someone on our tail.”
“How do you know she hasn't?” He challenged her, crossing his arms across his chest. His jaw tensed as a scowl sliced across his lips.
“I have a feeling, after all the trouble you put him through, Pete wouldn't dick around. Now would he?” Miranda narrowed her eyes. Her hands went to her hips and her lips pursed.
His eyes widened, briefly. Not over Miranda's presumption, though. Her language, her body posture, her expression. She was hardening to the circumstances. His heart shuddered at the thought. She didn't deserve this. They needed to get out of town. Maybe he could call her family and arrange a coup to return her to Legacy. “We should head out, now, regardless.”
She watched as he stormed around the room, chucking what little they had unpacked into a bag. Her gaze followed him as he paced the room. Her brow furrowed in annoyance. “What about Francesca? She's our only lead.”
“We'll figure out some other leads,” he replied as he slammed a phone charger into the backpack.
Her voice turned into cold steel, “We don't have any other leads.”
“Pete has other accounts across the country,” parried Tyler as he forcefully zipped one bag close. “We'll find them.”
“So, what are we going to do? Visit them one by one?” Miranda could barely contain her exasperation and her irritation. She pointed to the door, indicating the wide expanse of nation they had yet to cover. In the back of her mind, she knew they couldn't continue this forever. If Pete was tracking them down, or if his reach extended far and wide, it was only a matter of time before they were found out. Especially with Tyler prodding his nose in Pete's business. It was better to milk the one decent lead they had, wasn't it?
Tyler slammed the backpack down onto the bed. The bag bounced up and arched to the floor. He didn't notice as he turned, sharply to Miranda. He pinned her with a stormy brown glare. “We can't just stay here.”
“We need to try and talk to Francesca, again.” Miranda just barely resisted the urge to stomp her foot. Barely.
Only a fool would dismiss the whip of fury in the air. Tyler took a deep breath and counted to ten. In as level of a voice as he could manage, he hissed, “We need to stay safe.”
“So that's it, is it? Things get slightly complicated, and you take off?”
“Miranda,” Tyler growled in warning, his tone deep and dark.
She couldn't stop herself. Heat prickled down her body and anger grasped at her vocal cords. “No, that is your signature move, after all!”
Silence fell into the room, splintering the tension into cold shards. Surprise at herself skirted across Miranda's thoughts, but she continued to level her glare at Tyler. He stared at her, the heat of his rage cooling with a dangerous, metaphorical hiss. The muscle in his jaw worked and his hands hung at his sides, balled into fists. She waited for his response, waiting for his yell or his snarl or his denial.
Instead, he replied with a frostbitten growl, “I'm not going to deal with this right now.”
Before the words registered in her synapses, he was pounding across the floor. She had barely opened her mouth when the motel room's door slammed shut behind him. Miranda stood, alone, in the empty room, glaring at the last spot Tyler had been.