Eventually they’d discover Tess for who and what she was, but until then, I was on my own. At least someone else would be watching her now. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but Traffort had a tendency to jerk the steering wheel hard every time he switched lanes, keeping me awake. Eventually, we arrived at the Super 8 Motel in Wentzville. Built beside I-70 and sandwiched between a barbecue place on one side and a Rural King farm store on the other, it had three St. Louis news vans already broadcasting from its parking lot, likely preparing stories for their station’s morning shows. Traffort pulled past at least a dozen marked cruisers from various Missouri law enforcement agencies before coming to a stop beneath the carport in front of the motel’s lobby. Upon seeing us, several men, including Captain Morgan, stepped out of the building and into the early morning air, their breaths coming out in puffs of frost. I couldn’t see it, but a helicopter flew somewhere near overhead.
