Hunted

The suitcase sprawled open on the faded motel bed like a gaping mouth, its hollow jaws waiting to be fed. She drew in the dusty air, lungs straining against its weight, and flicked her gaze toward the clock.

2:12 AM.

She needed to move.

Outside, the motel’s VACANCY sign stuttered against the dark, its neon buzz gnawing at the quiet hum of the highway. She swept her eyes across the room one last time, examining every shadowed corner, before she began to pack.

First came the clothes—unremarkable and colorless: a sweater, two pairs of jeans, plain T-shirts. Nothing bright, nothing memorable.

Next, the small duffel bag. This one was more important.

Inside, she placed a roll of cash bound tight with a rubber band, a prepaid phone, hair ties, a newly minted ID, and a small silver necklace. She set aside the box of hair dye she’d bought hours earlier at a roadside convenience store. Then, reaching into the bedside drawer, her fingers brushed against the last item—a folded sheet of paper, waiting like a secret.

She hesitated.

The creases were deep, the edges fraying from repeated handling, and a small tear was notched at the top. She smoothed it carefully with her thumb, coaxing it open until the image revealed itself.

A missing person flyer.

She studied the girl’s face, taking in the shy smile, the familiar brown eyes, blonde hair that spilled over one shoulder, catching light against the small, silver necklace around her neck.

Her fingertip lingered on the printed chain, tracing its curve. She closed her eyes.

She thought about that girl, about the life captured in the photograph: quiet days, simple ones. A time of innocence, oblivious to the horrors waiting just beyond the frame. A time before she learned what it meant to be hunted.

She blinked hard, pulling herself back. Folding the flyer with practiced care, she slid it into her jacket pocket.

By 2:35 AM, she was nearly ready.

With the box of dye in hand, she crossed to the bathroom and froze.

The door stood ajar, just as she’d left it. The light still off.

Her breath caught.

She forced herself forward, pushing the door wide and flicking on the switch. The bulb stuttered, then hummed alive, casting a jaundiced glow across the sink. Her eyes flicked to the small window above the shower—too high for a passerby to peer through, its glass frosted and tinted. Harmless. Yet its very presence made her skin crawl.

She exhaled slowly, turning to face the mirror. She needed to hurry.

The sharp tang of chemicals filled the air as she twisted open the bottle. Tilting her head, she squeezed the liquid through pale strands, working it in with methodical fingers. Blonde deepened to brown, drip by drip.

When every lock was saturated, she pinned her hair up and made another circuit of the room, sneakers whispering against the carpet. Her belongings were stacked neatly by the door, waiting. The bed remained perfectly made. She hadn’t slept. She couldn’t.

When the time came, she leaned over the sink, letting the water swirl dark as it rinsed away. Strands clung wet against her cheeks as she scrubbed them dry with a towel. She pulled a baseball cap low over damp hair and flicked her gaze back to the mirror.

She barely recognized herself.

That was the point.

By 3:20 AM, it was time to go.

She watched the motel shrink in the rear-view mirror, swallowed by a night stretching long and empty before her. The town slept on, unaware, as it fell behind her.

She drove until the sky began to soften, the deep navy of pre-dawn bleeding into black. When she finally reached the station, she parked at the far end of the lot and took a moment to steady her breath.

She would not need the car anymore.

He would find it eventually.

She shouldered the duffel, gripped the suitcase, and stepped out. Head lowered, she moved toward the platform, passing only a handful of early travelers scattered along the benches.

Moments later, she was aboard.

The train rocked gently as it carved through the dark, city lights dissolving into open fields. She sat alone by the window, suitcase tucked against her feet, hands folded calmly in her lap.

The rhythmic clatter of the tracks filled the silence. She pulled out her phone and began to scroll.

The news was everywhere.

“The search continues for missing twenty-four-year-old Tessa Marsh, last seen three days ago in—”

She lowered the volume, the brim of her cap shadowing her face as the newscaster’s voice droned on.

They were looking. Posting online, pleading for updates, pretending to care.

They always did, at the beginning.

She sipped her coffee, thumb hovering before pressing play on the following clip.

The camera panned to the man at the podium.

Her stomach twisted.

There he was. The one who had been hunting her.

Detective Calloway.

He looked worn down. Deep, dark circles carved beneath his eyes, his expression hardened by sleepless nights. His jaw appeared tight, yet his voice remained steady as he spoke.

Too steady.

“We are doing everything in our power to find Tessa Marsh and bring her home. We urge anyone with information to come forward immediately. We believe—”

She clicked the screen off and slipped the phone into her jacket pocket. Her hand brushed against paper.

Slowly, she drew the flyer out once more, smoothing its creases beneath her fingers.

Her lips curved.

With practiced ease, she reached into the duffel and unzipped it halfway. Her fingers found the slit sewn into the lining, grazing the hidden compartment beneath.

She lifted the flap, just enough to glimpse inside.

There it was. Tucked away, waiting.

The album.

She slid Tessa’s flyer in with the others.

Different girls. Different smiles. Different cities.

All mid-twenties. All missing.

She let the silver necklace slip in after it, the chain catching briefly between her fingers before vanishing into the dark pocket. A slow, satisfied breath escaped her as she sealed it shut.

Her smile widened.

Detective Calloway had gotten close—closer than anyone before. His pursuit had been relentless, his shadow a constant presence at her back.

The hunt would continue.

But he would not find her.

He would, however, find that missing girl.

Soon enough, he would find himself in another bathroom, at another motel, staring down at another girl’s body left cold in the tub.

Soon enough, he would find Tessa Marsh.

The train thundered forward, carrying her toward another town.

A new name. A new beginning.

And, in time, a new flyer.