Chapter 5: Room 404
The neon sign outside Mabel’s Diner went dark just as Clint's phone began to ring.
He looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
He didn't answer.
The call stopped.
A second later, the phone rang again.
Rachel watched him.
“Are you going to get that?””
“No.””
“Why not?””
“Because whoever it is wants me to answer.””
The phone stopped again.
Then a text appeared.
*ROOM 404. ALONE. 11:00 P.M.*
Clint stared at it.
Rachel noticed his expression.
“What does it say?””
He turned the screen toward her.
Her face tightened.
“Room 404?””
Clint nodded.
Martha stepped closer.
“What's room 404?””
June answered before Clint could.
“The old Prairie Star Motel.””
Martha looked at her.
“You know it?””
June nodded.
“Everybody around here knows it.””
“Why?””
“Because that's where David met his brother the night before he died.””
Rachel froze.
“What?””
June looked at Clint.
“I never told you that part.””
Clint slid the phone into his pocket.
“Then tonight's full of things nobody told anybody.””
Rachel shook her head.
“My uncle Michael said he never saw Dad that night.””
“He lied,” June said.
Rachel looked toward the road.
“Then we should go.””
Clint immediately shook his head.
“No.””
“Why?””
“Because the message said alone.””
Rachel looked at him.
“Which means it's a trap.””
“Exactly.””
“So we're not going?””
“We're going.””
Rachel blinked.
“You just said—”
“I said alone.””
Clint walked toward his motorcycle.
“We're not going alone.””
Martha caught up with him.
“I am coming.””
“No.””
“You've said that twice tonight.””
“And I'm saying it again.””
Martha stopped.
“You don't get to decide for me.””
Clint turned.
The woman's eighty-year-old face looked smaller in the dim light, but there was nothing fragile about her eyes.
“I spent twelve years being told I was too old to know the truth,” Martha said.
Her voice trembled.
“I'm not spending the rest of my life being told to sit quietly while other people decide what happened to my son.””
Clint looked at her for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
“All right.””
Rachel smiled faintly.
“You know, for a biker, you're surprisingly obedient.””
Clint gave her a look.
“Don't push it.””
For the first time that night, Martha laughed.
It was small.
But it was real.
And somehow, that made the darkness ahead feel a little less complete.
They drove separately.
Clint led.
Rachel followed in the SUV.
Martha stayed beside June.
Three vehicles rolled onto the highway beneath a sky thick with clouds.
Rain began hitting Clint's windshield before they reached the motel.
The Prairie Star Motel sat three miles outside town, wedged between an abandoned gas station and a field of dead sunflowers.
Half the sign had burned out years ago.
The office windows were boarded.
The parking lot was nearly empty.
Only one car sat near the far end.
An old black sedan.
Clint parked across the road instead of pulling in.
Rachel stopped behind him.
June remained in her vehicle with Martha.
Clint stared at the motel.
“Room 404 is on the second floor.””
Rachel looked up.
“Do you think someone is really in there?””
“Probably.””
“Then why aren't we calling the police?””
Clint looked at her.
“Because we don't know who we're calling.””
Rachel didn't like the answer.
But she couldn't argue with it.
They crossed the lot on foot.
The motel doors groaned when Clint pushed them open.
The lobby smelled of mildew and dust.
A dead television hung behind the desk.
The key rack was almost empty.
One key remained.
A brass tag marked:
*404*
Rachel stared at it.
“That wasn't here when I was a kid.””
Clint picked it up.
The key was warm.
Someone had been holding it recently.
He showed Rachel.
“Don't touch anything else.””
They climbed the stairs.
The hallway lights flickered overhead.
At the end was Room 404.
The door stood slightly open.
Clint stopped.
Rachel whispered, “That's inviting.””
“It's a trap.””
“Definitely.””
He pushed the door with two fingers.
Nothing.
No movement.
The room smelled like cigarette smoke.
A single lamp was on beside the bed.
An old chair sat near the window.
And on the table was a black notebook.
Rachel's breath caught.
“That's Dad's.””
Clint stepped inside.
“Don't touch it.””
Rachel pointed.
“I know that cover.””
Clint approached slowly.
The notebook was old.
Black leather.
Scratched along one edge.
A faded silver emblem appeared on the front.
The Iron Creek Riders.
Clint's expression hardened.
He looked around the room.
“Someone wanted us to find this.””
Rachel stared at the notebook.
“Then why leave it?””
“Because they want us to think it's the important thing.””
He didn't touch it.
Instead, he looked beneath the bed.
Empty.
He checked the bathroom.
Empty.
Closet.
Empty.
Then he heard a faint sound.
A clicking noise.
Behind them.
The door.
Rachel spun around.
The door had closed.
Clint crossed the room in two strides.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
Rachel's breathing quickened.
“It's locked.””
“I know.””
“Clint.””
He pulled harder.
Nothing.
Then the lights went out.
Rachel gasped.
The room became black.
“Stay still.””
Something moved behind the curtains.
Clint heard it.
He grabbed Rachel's arm.
“Down.””
They crouched just as the window shattered.
Glass exploded across the room.
A dark figure lunged through the broken window frame.
Clint shoved Rachel aside.
The figure swung something heavy.
Clint blocked it with his forearm.
Pain shot through his arm.
He grabbed the attacker's jacket.
The two men crashed into the wall.
Rachel screamed.
“Clint!””
“Run!””
She moved toward the door.
The attacker shoved Clint aside and raced toward the window.
Clint lunged after him.
He caught a piece of fabric.
The sleeve tore.
The figure disappeared into the darkness below.
Clint looked through the broken window.
Nothing.
Then he saw movement.
A motorcycle engine roared to life.
Black bike.
Same rider.
Same helmet.
Gone.
Rachel stood frozen.
Clint looked at the piece of torn fabric in his hand.
Something metallic was sewn inside the sleeve.
A small patch.
Not a club patch.
A symbol.
A circle divided by a vertical line.
Rachel stared at it.
“I know that.””
Clint looked at her.
“From where?””
“My mother's jewelry.””
“What?””
“She had that symbol on a necklace.””
Clint's stomach tightened.
He dropped the fabric onto the table.
“Your mother was connected to whoever this is.””
Rachel shook her head.
“No.””
Clint pointed toward the notebook.
“She knew about the letter.””
“Yes.””
“She knew about Michael.””
“Yes.””
“She knew about Thomas.””
Rachel swallowed.
“Yes.””
“And she wore this symbol.””
Rachel stared at it.
“Maybe.””
Clint's voice hardened.
“That's not a coincidence.””
Rachel suddenly rushed toward the notebook.
Clint caught her wrist.
“Don't.””
“I need to know what he wrote.””
“That's exactly what they want.””
“What if it's the only thing we have?””
Clint released her.
She stared at him.
Then carefully opened the notebook.
The first pages contained dates.
Numbers.
License plates.
Initials.
Places.
Rachel turned page after page.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
“What?””
She turned the notebook toward him.
Three names were written beneath one date.
*Michael Lane.*
*Ellen Lane.*
*Thomas Lane.*
Beside them was an amount.
$75,000.
Rachel's hands began shaking.
“What is that?””
Clint looked at the next page.
More numbers.
More names.
More payments.
He whispered:
“It's a ledger.””
Rachel stared.
“My dad was tracking them.””
“Looks like it.””
She turned another page.
There was a photograph taped inside.
David stood beside a truck.
The truck was black.
Behind him was a highway overpass.
Rachel recognized the location.
“That's where he crashed.””
Clint nodded.
At the bottom of the photograph was a date.
October 1.
One day before his birthday.
Rachel touched the image.
“Why would he take this?””
Clint looked closer.
“Because something else is in the photo.””
“What?””
He pointed.
At the far edge of the frame, almost hidden behind the truck, was a second motorcycle.
Black.
A rider sat on it.
Helmeted.
Watching David.
Rachel's lips parted.
“That’s him.””
“Maybe.””
She zoomed in on the photograph with her phone.
The image blurred.
But the jacket was visible.
And on the sleeve—
the same symbol.
Rachel dropped the phone.
“My mother knew.””
Clint didn't answer.
“She knew someone was following Dad.””
“Yes.””
“She knew about the letter.””
“Yes.””
“She knew he was going to tell the police.””
“Yes.””
Rachel's eyes filled.
“Then why didn't she stop him?””
Clint looked at her.
“Maybe she tried.””
Rachel stared.
“Or maybe she helped.””
The words hung in the air.
Rachel slapped him.
The sound echoed through the room.
Clint didn't react.
“Don't say that.””
“I didn't say she did.””
“You were thinking it.””
“Yes.””
Rachel looked away.
“My mother loved him.””
“People can love each other and still make terrible choices.””
Rachel shook her head.
“You don't know her.””
“No.””
Clint glanced at the notebook.
“But I know fear.””
He turned another page.
Then stopped.
There was a handwritten note.
Different handwriting from David's.
Three words:
*HE KNOWS NOW.*
Rachel stared.
“What does that mean?””
Clint pointed beneath it.
Another line.
*MOVE THE BOX.*
Rachel's breath caught.
“The green box.””
Clint nodded.
“Someone moved it.””
Rachel slowly sat on the bed.
“They knew we found it.””
Clint looked at the window.
The motorcycle was gone.
“Not just that.””
“What?””
“They knew we'd find the letters.””
Rachel looked at him.
“How?””
Clint picked up the notebook carefully.
“Because somebody put this room together for us.””
A noise came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Clint closed the notebook.
“Someone's coming.””
Rachel stood.
“What do we do?””
“Hide.””
They stepped into the bathroom.
Clint pulled the door almost shut.
The footsteps came closer.
Slow.
Measured.
A key turned.
The room door opened.
Someone entered.
Rachel covered her mouth.
Clint looked through the narrow gap.
A man stood in the room.
Older.
Gray hair.
Black coat.
No motorcycle gear.
He walked directly to the table.
Picked up the notebook.
Then spoke.
“You're making this much harder than it needs to be.””
Clint's eyes narrowed.
The man's voice sounded familiar.
Rachel looked at Clint.
He mouthed:
Do you know him?
Clint shook his head.
The man flipped through the notebook.
“You should have left David's name buried.””
Rachel's eyes widened.
The man continued.
“He was a stubborn fool.””
Clint slowly reached toward his phone.
The man's head turned.
He stopped.
For one terrifying second, Clint thought he'd been seen.
Then the man smiled.
Not toward the bathroom.
Toward the broken window.
“Come out, Clint.””
Rachel's eyes widened.
“He knows you're here.””
Clint opened the bathroom door.
“Who are you?””
The man looked at him.
“Someone who was there.””
“When?””
“The night your father died.””
Clint's voice hardened.
“You were at the crash?””
The man shook his head.
“No.””
“Then where?””
“Here.””
Clint looked at the notebook.
“You set this up.””
“I found what David left behind.””
“Who are you?””
The man glanced toward Rachel.
“Ask her.””
Rachel stared.
The man smiled.
“Your mother knows me.””
Rachel went pale.
“What is your name?””
He stepped closer.
“Samuel Price.””
Clint froze.
He knew the name.
Everyone in the old riding community knew it.
Samuel Price had been a mechanic.
A fixer.
A man who worked around motorcycles, freight companies, and private transport.
He had disappeared around the same time David died.
Clint stepped forward.
“You're supposed to be dead.””
Samuel smiled.
“That's the problem with rumors.””
Rachel whispered:
“Why did my father have your name?””
Samuel didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled something from his coat.
A small photograph.
He held it out.
David stood beside a teenage girl.
Clint stared.
It was the girl he had heard about.
The one David had saved on the highway.
Rachel looked at the photograph.
“Who is she?””
Samuel looked at her.
“You don't recognize her?””
Rachel shook her head.
Samuel turned the photograph around.
On the back was a name.
Rachel read it.
Then her knees nearly gave out.
Because the girl in the photograph...
had the same last name as Rachel.
*Rachel Lane.*
Rachel stared at the picture.
“That's impossible.””
Clint looked from the photograph to her.
“How old were you?””
“Eleven.””
Samuel nodded.
“Exactly.””
Rachel's voice shook.
“This picture was taken before Dad died.””
“Yes.””
“Then why am I in it?””
Samuel's face became serious.
“Because your father wasn't trying to protect you after the crash.””
He looked at Clint.
“He had been protecting you for months.””
Rachel whispered:
“From who?””
Samuel took a breath.
“From the people who killed him.””
A loud engine suddenly roared outside.
Samuel turned toward the window.
His expression changed.
“They're here.””
Clint moved closer.
“Who?””
Samuel handed him the photograph.
Then he grabbed the notebook.
“The people who don't want that ledger found.””
A motorcycle engine screamed below.
Then another.
Samuel looked at Rachel.
“Your mother wasn't the only one who knew.””
Rachel stared.
“What do you mean?””
Samuel opened the door.
“Ask your grandmother what happened eleven years before David died.””
Then he disappeared into the hallway.
Clint ran after him.
By the time he reached the stairs, Samuel was gone.
Outside, three motorcycles tore out of the parking lot.
Clint rushed back upstairs.
Rachel stood by the broken window.
Martha's voice came through the phone on the table.
She had called while they were inside.
Rachel answered.
“Grandma?””
Martha's voice was trembling.
“Rachel, come home.””
“Why?””
“I found something.””
“What?””
“A photograph.””
“Of Dad?””
“No.””
Martha took a breath.
“Of you.””
Rachel looked at Clint.
“What about me?””
Martha whispered:
“It was taken before you were born.””
Clint's eyes narrowed.
Rachel's heart began pounding.
“How?””
Martha's voice broke.
“Because the woman in the photograph isn't supposed to exist.””
Then the line went dead.
Rachel stared at her phone.
Clint looked toward the dark highway.
Somewhere beyond the rain, an engine roared.
May you like
And for the first time, the mystery surrounding David Lane stopped being only about how he died.
It became a question of who Rachel really was... and why so many people had spent twelve years trying to keep her from finding out.
