I told him to slide the heavy deadbolt and not open the door for anyone, under any circumstances, not even the motel staff.

I drove back out to the diner on Route Nine.

The heavy rain had finally stopped, but the cracked asphalt in the lot was still slick and dark.

Marcus was already parked near the back fence in his gray sedan, reading a yellow legal pad propped on his steering wheel.

I walked over to his car and got into the passenger seat.

The smell of cheap diner coffee filled the small space.