Miriam spins the keys in her hand. "Settle down, cupcake. They didn't follow me."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"We still have to get out of here."

"Fine. So we get out of here."

He shifts from foot to foot.

"The drugs," she says. "What were you planning on doing with them? That case looks heavy."

His gaze darts to the windows, the door. "It is heavy. Fifty pounds or so. It's worth it."

"How worth it?"

"I dunno. Ten grand a pound. Maybe more."

"Jesus. Ten grand a pound, for meth?" She does some quick math. "You're looking at a half-a-million bucks in that suitcase. Why the hell do you need me again? You're sitting on a fat bank account. You've got a high-stakes table, and you're dicking around at the nickel slots."

"I'm not a goddamn drug dealer!" he yells out – his patience and smiling charm have worn away entirely. "I haven't the first clue how to unload this much meth. Or any meth! Honestly? You really want to know? I figured you might be able to push it."

"Me? Are you kidding?"

"You look… like you maybe do meth. Or did."

"No," she seethes, "I look like I do heroin – and I don't do that, either. I have all my teeth and I don't smell like cat piss, so don't think I'm some basehead tweaker fuckface."

He throws up his hands. "Fine. Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities. Can we go now?"

With a grunt of frustration, she tosses him the keys and shoulders her messenger bag.

"Go," he says, shepherding her toward the door.

Miriam is first out.

She doesn't see it – the car is matte black, and the darkness damn near swallows it whole. But then, bam, the headlights are on, right in her face: the Cutlass Ciera from the other motel is sitting there, right in the driveway. Shielding her eyes from the light, Miriam can't make out the shapes of the driver and passenger, but she knows they're in there. Waiting.

From behind her, she hears: "Oh, no. Fuck. No no no."

The car's still running when the front doors swing open. Harriet Adams and Frankie Gallo get out of the car. Neither hurries. Both carry pistols.

Miriam formulates the route – go back inside, back through the motel room, kick out the bathroom window, escape through the field that hugs the back of the motel, or maybe the woods that sit off to the right – and she turns around to enact her plan, but…

Ashley stands in her way, holding the metal suitcase. Their eyes meet.

She sees it click in his mind – the way the clock in Del Amico's motel room flipped over from one number to the next. Your time is up, a voice rings in her head.

Ashley gives her a shove and slams the door. The lock engages.

She's alone out here. With them. With two loaded pistols.

Miriam screams his name. Her blood's a dull roar. She pounds on the door. Behind her, Harriet marches slow and steady, a serial killer, a terminator, an unstoppable and ineluctable force. Harriet waves the man, Frankie, around, yells at him to follow out back.