Goldberg steered the car slowly down the street of a blue-collar neighborhood trying to get off its knees and back onto its feet. "1811. It's on your side."

"You sure it's 1811?" said Hobbs.

"According to the Past Due Notice the kid got from the bank. 1811 Potomac Street."

Hobbs squinted, trying to make out the addresses on the modest brick homes in the fading light as soft snowflakes melted on the windshield. "Is that supposed to say 1807? I can't even see the 1 and the 7 looks like a checkmark." They passed another home. He pointed to Blake's house. "1811. Okay, here we go. The place is dark."

Goldberg parked the car and they got out. Hobbs eyed the rolls of old carpeting stacked at the curb on his way down the cracked walkway. He raised himself up onto his toes, peeked in through the front window, too dark to see inside, then knocked on the door.

The detectives waited, listening and surveying the neighborhood. Hobbs knocked again, this time more forcefully.

His partner walked around to the side of the house and made his way to the back. When he returned to the front yard he shook his head. "No lights in the back, either."

Hobbs' knuckles stung when he rapped on the door like he was trying to take it off its hinges.

Blake's neighbor stepped onto his porch, cautious when he saw the men in suits.

"How you doing this evening?" Hobbs asked.

"Good. Good."

"I'm looking for your neighbor. Blake Gannon."

"He doesn't actually live here. He's doing a reno."

"When did you see him last?" Goldberg asked.

"A few days ago." His congenial smile narrowed as he thought about the motive behind the question. "Not sure. Yeah, I think so."

"He's not in there?"

"If he was, you'd hear him. Power tools, hammering. The dude is a grinder." He looked out toward the curb. "I don't see his car. Or Rachel's."

"Rachel?"

"His girlfriend."

Goldberg smiled. "We'd like to have a word with her, too." He pulled a card out of his pocket, walked it over to the neighbor's porch, and handed it over the railing.

"They're both real nice," the neighbor said. "Good people."

"If you see them, give me a call, would you?"

"They in some kind of trouble?"

"We just need to ask them a few questions," said Hobbs. "Clear up some things."

The neighbor looked like he wanted to say something, glanced at Hobbs then changed his mind. He nodded, eyes on the card.

########

Before getting into his car, Gizmo made a call. He drew a long pull on his cigarette. While waiting for Alex to answer, he scratched his forearm where a prison artifact was located, a self-administered tattoo.

"Yeah?" Alex was barely comprehensible through a mouthful of food.

"I'm down here in Virginia. I got a hit on the girl's car."

"That was fast." Alex smacked his lips.

"Yeah, the internet's a little quicker than your FAX machine."

"Fuck you, Giz."

"They ditched the car in the woods. Had stolen Maryland plates on it." He watched a teenage girl walking her dog across the street. "Hey, do another sweep of her boyfriend's car, will you? See if you can find old receipts, anything."

"If it ain't already towed away by now. What'd you get off his computer?"

"Not much. Job searches, resumes. That kind of shit."

"Any hot pics of his chick?"

"Nope." Gizmo savored his final mouthful of smoke and then flicked his cigarette onto the concrete. "I'm gonna check car rentals in the area down here."

"I'll let the old man know."

Gizmo slipped the phone into his pocket then got behind the wheel and started his car. He cruised slowly along the road, enjoying the view of the girl's legs. He leaned out the window and when she saw the driver, an uneasy expression spread across her face. He offered a little wave. She turned away.

Two hours later, he parked his car in the Enterprise lot in Strasberg. He entered the small white brick building and found Virgil behind the counter.

"Welcome to Enterprise," he said with a hesitant smile. "How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for a girl and a guy who may have rented a car from you in the past couple of days."

Virgil straightened, tugging at the hem of his yellow golf shirt.

"You'd remember this girl." Gizmo grinned. "Smokin' hot chick. She'd fog these windows and make your balls boil."

Virgil tapped his pen on the counter, looking like he could use a sedative.

"You haven't seen anybody like that?" He raised his pale eyes at Virgil.

No answer.

"You don't forget this girl. Believe me."

"I really can't provide any customer information."

Gizmo drew a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off a few twenty-dollar bills. "Let's call this a tip." He laid the money on the counter. "For quality customer service." A cold smile formed through his stubble.

"We're not actually permitted to accept tips."

Gizmo shook his head then slowly paced to the door, locking it.

Virgil went rigid. "I think you may have accidentally locked the door," he said. "Could you open it, please? Please?"

"For who?" Gizmo squinted through the window into the lot. "Looks like it's just you and me."

"Well, actually, it's the rule. One of the rules. One of the company rules."

"Sometimes it's okay to bend the rules a little to help somebody out. You know what I mean?"

"See, like I said. If the company found out I provided personal customer information--"

"You think the company gives a fuck about you? You think the girl gives a fuck about you? And now you're gonna get yourself all jammed up over this."

"Jammed up?" His voice cracked. "What do you mean jammed up?"

"Let's just say neither one of us wants this to turn out bad." He eyeballed the name tag then added, "Am I reading you right on that, Virgil?"

"Yeah. Sure." The indentation at the base of Virgil's neck glistened with perspiration.

"My doc says I gotta watch my blood pressure. And now you're making it worse. That's a problem."

"I'm really sorry about your blood pressure."

########

Rachel slid her arms into her hoodie, drew the hood up over her head then grabbed the room key from the desk. She listened at the door, then opened it a few inches, squinting into the expanse of blackness stretching out in front of her. When her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she slipped outside and pulled the door closed behind her. The air smelled of diesel fumes and car exhaust, with notes of open sewer. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of muffled country music whispered.

Progressing across the cracked asphalt parking lot, past their rented sedan, she observed only three other vehicles in the lot, older cars and a pickup truck that had seen better days, all of them wearing South Carolina plates.

She spun on her heels when she heard what sounded like quiet footsteps on the motel walkway behind her and found no one there. The voices of the wind interrupted one another, turning, rolling sideways, then whispering away.

She took cover behind the pickup truck, scanning the walkway, watching for moving shadows. Soft amber light lit the window of their motel room. The adjoining rooms were dark and apparently unoccupied. At one end of the motel, light leaked from the office but she noticed no activity. Her eyes shifted to the opposite end of the building where an expired soda machine stood, lights out, a spider web stretching from the top to a rusted downspout.

In the window of her motel room, the curtains parted revealing the silhouette of Blake's head. She scampered across the parking lot to their room and arrived just as he opened the door.

"Where were you?" he asked as she locked the door.

"I thought I heard someone walking past the window. A few times."

His face flushed. "Did you see anything?"

She shook her head.

"Think we should get out of here?"

"We should probably wait til morning to get back on the road."

"To where?"

She shrugged. "Keep driving south, I guess. We need to figure out what to do with that."

He looked at the duffel bag. "What are our options? We take it with us, right?"

"Yeah, but then what? We're stuck leaving it in the trunk or dragging it with us everywhere we go. How long are we gonna be able to keep that up? Especially with..."

He knew what she meant, she didn't need to say it.

He dropped onto the bed, hanging his head.

She turned off the lamp then slid onto the bed, her eyes on the window.

He laid beside her, his voice suddenly filled with enthusiasm. "There's this dude. Logan. Logan Austin. He was my roommate in my junior and senior years." A smile widened. "He lives in Atlanta. Or near Atlanta. At least he did."

She said nothing, her expression blank.

"He'd definitely help us out."

"Help us out how?"

"Take the money off our hands. He was into bitcoin. Big time."

"You're comfortable with bitcoin?"

"We'll figure it out."

A small laugh escaped her lips.

"I mean we could trust him. Definitely."

"With almost half a million dollars?"

"For sure."

"Money changes people, Babe. Especially a lot of money."

"No, you don't understand. We're friends. We were super tight."

She felt like she was having a conversation with a seven-year-old. "How do you explain where you got the money? How do you explain why you can't keep it?"

He thought about it for a minute. "I'll think of something."

She felt sick. She wanted to shake him and make him think with her brain for just a minute. "How do you even find this Logan?"

"Look him up."

"We can't do searches on our burner phones."

"I'll use a library computer."

He seemed so proud of himself for devising a plan that was disastrous on so many levels. She could see it so clearly. Why couldn't he? And the more he suggested potentially fatal strategies, the greater her anxiety. She wished that he'd stop talking.