CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Morning sunlight flashed across Ilse’s eyes, rousing her, and reminding her just how flimsy the motel mattress had been.
More like a prisoner’s cot.
She shifted uncomfortably, letting out a faint groan as the lower portion of her back protested the movement. She propped on an elbow, wincing, blinking the needles of sunlight creeping through the open blinds. She had left the window uncovered intentionally, hoping to rouse at dawn.
But now, as she listened, and blinked, her eyes experiencing some small discomfort, she realized it had not been the sun that woke her. Rather, it was the faint, but insistent knocking on her door.
“Yes?” she called.
“Ilse,” Sawyer said, his tone urgent.
She perked up, frowning. She pushed the blankets off her legs, and quickly left her be
