Page 22 of The Spice Is Nice

I’d been sittingin my truck for forty minutes with the engine off and my hands on the steering wheel and absolutely no plan for what to do if this went wrong.

The Gruff Bear Motel sat on a two-lane road about a mile outside Forest Grove. It had probably been charming in the seventies, not so much now. Two stories of rooms with outdoor walkways, a seasonal pool with a chain-link fence around it, and a neon “rooms available by the hour” sign out front that flickered on and off.

Seth’s motorcycle was parked in front of room fourteen, first floor, end of the building. The black SUV I’d seen at the rally was in the lot too, which meant he had two vehicles and the resources to maintain them. The congressman’s money at work.

I had parked across the road, tucked behind some pines, hardly visible from the motel lot. I’d been watching and waiting, while my resolve wavered whether I really was going to do this reckless act or not.

The old Ivy would have done it without thinking, but I’d spent the past few years proving I wasn’t that person anymore. Breaking into a motel room. Searching through a dangerous man’s belongings. Alone, at dusk, with nobody knowing where I was.

My phone sat on the passenger seat. I picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.

I finally typed the text before I could talk myself out of it.

Ivy: I’m at the Gruff Bear Motel. Room 14. Waiting for Seth to leave so I can get inside. Before you say anything, I’m doing this. But I wanted someone to know where I was. In case.

I hit send, watched the message deliver to Colt’s number, and then powered the phone off completely. I couldn’t hear his protests right now. If I heard his voice, I might actually listen, and then I’d never know what Seth was up to.

When the door finally opened. Seth stepped out in his boots and jacket, helmet in one hand, phone in the other. He was texting someone as he walked to the motorcycle, his face lit by the screen’s glow. He swung a leg over, kicked the engine to life, and the bike roared out of the lot and onto the two-lane heading toward town.

I counted to sixty. Then sixty again. My hands shook as I got out of my car and moved.

The motel was quiet. Only three other cars in the lot, all clustered near the office on the far end. The desertedpool to my left was drained and covered with a tarp, and the pump house beside it was a cinder-block shed with a padlocked door.

I crouched behind the wall for a few more minutes. Then I crossed the lot fast, keeping to the shadows along the building’s edge. Room fourteen was at the end of the first-floor walkway, furthest from the office and the parking lot lights.

The door was a standard motel lock, not yet updated with a fancy keycard system. I pulled two bobby pins from my hair and bent one into an L-shape and straightened the other, and I went to work on the deadbolt underneath. Another trick Seth had taught me.

I recall laughing with him about it because it felt like a game, like we were in a movie. Nothing bad could come from a girl who could pick a lock. The irony of using his own lesson to break into his room tonight was not lost on me.

The deadbolt turned on the third try. I pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind me. With my back against it, I finally let out the breath I had been holding.

The stench hit me first: cigarettes, leather, and sweat. He’d left the bedside lamp on, providing enough dim light to see by. The standard cheap motel layout accosted me, with the typical bed, dresser, table by the window, bathroom, and small closet to the left. Seth’s duffel bag was open on the bed, clothes spilling out.

I started with the dresser, searching for anything that would explain Seth’s intentions. Top drawer: clothes, socks,a phone charger. Second drawer: more clothes. I lifted the shirts and my hand hit something hard and cold. I pulled the fabric back, and my stomach dropped. A revolver, probably loaded. I didn’t dare check or touch it. I covered it back up and moved on; the trembling returned to my hands.

I turned my attention to the table. There I found maps, spread out and overlapping, held down by a coffee mug and a set of car keys. A county map had properties marked in red circles. I recognized ranch names. The Hollis land, south of town. Two other properties I knew by reputation included parcels that had been in the same hands for generations.

Each circle had a number beside it, like a code or a reference. The second map was more detailed—focused on the Off-Duty Rescue Ranch and the Wylde property. My heart sank at the ranch boundaries traced in blue. The twenty acres Chris Magnus had preserved for my family were outlined too, with a notation I couldn’t quite read in the dim light.

The third map was downtown Forest Grove. Main Street, the square, the shops. He’d circled two buildings in heavy red marker—The Bank of Forest Grove, and next to it, Wylde West Outfitters. I swallowed hard. Seeing it there on Seth’s table, targeted alongside whatever he and the congressman were planning, made my blood go cold in a way the gun hadn’t.

What did all of this mean? What exactly was the Brewsters’ agenda here? I took my phone out and snapped away, photographing it all.

I picked up the county map to look closer at the Wylde property marking, when something slipped from betweenthe folds onto the carpet. I crouched and felt for it. My fingers closed around something small and cold. I held it up in front of my eyes.

A bracelet. A very familiar one—with tiny leaves, each one shaped like an ivy vine, linked in a pattern my mother had picked out when I was twelve years old. She’d given one to each of us girls that year. Daisy’s bracelet had daisies. Sage’s had sage leaves. Poppy’s had small round blooms. And mine had ivy, curling and golden and as much a part of me as my name.

I thought I’d lost this bracelet the night I’d called the police on Seth. I’d been hiding in the warehouse, filming him with shaking hands, and the clasp must have come undone. Never thought I’d see it again and assumed it was gone, swallowed by the worst night of my life.

Seth had it this entire time? He must have found it that night during the arrest, and he’dkept itthroughout prison?

Which means… he might suspect I’d been the one to call the police.

I closed my fist around it and felt the tiny leaves press into my palm. This was mine. My mother gave it to me. Whatever Seth thought it meant, whatever power he thought it gave him, it wasmine, and I was taking it back.

I slipped it into the pocket of my skirt.

The door flew open.