Free One Night More by Clara Bayard Page A

brash protectiveness to his silly sense of humor, Sam was indescribably fantastic. Wholly imperfect, but maybe perfect for me.
    Mind bursting with these thoughts, I shivered in the cold air. Not ready to climb back into bed yet, I dug through our discarded pile of clothes to find something to put on. Then I remembered Sam bought himself a couple of t-shirts on our way to the motel. I went over to the bag and pulled one out.
    I yanked off the tags and slipped into it. I spotted something reflective in the bag and took it out, curious.
    It was a chrome-colored prepaid cell phone, like the one he'd given me to spy on Mitchell with. That plan hadn't gone as well as I'd hoped, but it had, in a roundabout way, led me here. With a smile I flipped it.
    After glancing over my shoulder to confirm he was still fast asleep, I stepped back into the doorway of the dark bathroom and turned my back to block any light from the phone.
    Thinking of Anna and how worried she must be, I turned the phone on to call her. The phone was untraceable so it wouldn't put her at any risk. Besides, I just needed to hear her voice, even just on her outgoing message.
    When the phone started up I noticed it had been used already. The little indicator showed use of seven minutes, and there was a voicemail message. I figured Sam must have tried contacting a friend on the force or something, and began dialing Anna's number.
    I paused, looking at the time. It was almost two in the morning. She'd be asleep, but wouldn't mind if I woke her.
    While I was debating, a text message arrived. Instinctively I clicked to open the message. It was nothing but a long series of numbers. Weird .
    Curious and happy the dark hid my nosiness, I scrolled through the other messages. There were five or so, and a few were like the last, random numbers. But the oldest one was actual words. It read, "Good. Punch Snap."
    Super weird . What the hell did "Punch Snap" mean? Some kind of police code? Two flashes of memory hit me simultaneously. The tall man at the warehouse who'd made that strange gesture with his fist and then snapping his fingers. And Sam, later, doing almost the exact same thing.
    What did that mean? It could be a coincidence, but that certainly wasn't a common gesture. And the text message certainly seemed to reference it. But that didn't make any sense. How could there be a connection between Sam and that man? There couldn't. It was ridiculous.
    Still assuring myself of that, I clicked over to the sent messages. There was only one. And from the timestamp, Sam had sent it before all the rest were received.
    The words I read made my knees go weak and my vision swim. I had to scan it three times to make sure I understood. "With target. Buying time. Advise."
    "Target?" That had to be me. But cops don't describe the witnesses they protect and girls they date as targets. A sense of cold dread filled me and I shivered.
    Little things that didn't make sense started to add up. The picture in the puzzle began to clear. Sam had told me about his undercover operation, but maybe he'd gone deeper than he'd admitted. It explained how he was so sure what Mitchell was doing was related to the larger case. And why he'd followed me to the warehouse. If he had.
    I never saw that man's face. And even remarked he was around Sam's size. It could have been him. So easy to circle the warehouse and get behind me while I was creeping up carefully. The idea was too horrifying to believe, but it also seemed so right. Like a tune barely heard, finally recognized.
    Choking back a sob I shut the phone off and closed it. Minutes before I'd been amused by the continued existence of flip-phones, and now I was going to be ill.
    I clutched my stomach, mind reeling.
    "Finished snooping?"
    I spun around. Sam was sitting up in bed, eyes trained on me, and not a bit of playfulness in his voice.
    "I-I just…"
    "It doesn't matter," he said shaking his head. Even in the dark I can see right through you."
    My gaze