Chapter 4: Nowhere to Run

My phone vibrated, and the sharp "ding" of an Instagram group chat almost sent me through the ceiling. It was the group for local motel owners—the only social connection I bothered with. Someone had just dropped a news alert:

[Urgent Notice: Suspected Serial Killer Has Entered the City. All citizens, please be vigilant. If you have any information, contact the police immediately.]

I scrambled to tap the link, my hands slick with sweat. The headline blared: Serial killer on the loose, preying on young women. His MO? Bringing fresh victims to motels, then dismembering them on site. Several places already shut down for investigation.

No mugshot, just a rough description—tall, thin, always disguised. The warning was clear: any tips, report now.

I froze, my skin crawling. Everything matched—the mask, the body, the setup. My brain spun, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the news anchor’s voice. I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over 911.

But then I stopped cold. How the hell would I explain to the cops that I knew all this? What was I supposed to say—"Oh, I just happened to notice something weird on the security feed?" Not a chance. They’d tear the place apart, and my hidden cameras would be the first thing they found. That’d be a ticket straight to federal prison.

Even if I pretended I saw the news and got suspicious, they’d still ask why I let him in without ID. And by the time they showed up, he’d already have started. The room would be a bloodbath, and the cops would find every one of my cameras. I’d be toast.

But if I kept my mouth shut and waited for him to finish and leave, what if he got caught later? What if he ratted me out, or the police came sniffing around? Even if I yanked out the cameras now, there’d be holes, wires—impossible to erase all the traces. Either way, my goose was cooked.

I frantically googled "jail time for hidden cameras in motel." Ten years. Ten damn years! My stomach flipped. I pictured myself in orange, eating mystery meat off a plastic tray. No way.

I nearly crushed my cigarette between my shaking fingers. My whole life—the money, the motel, everything—on the line. I forced myself to breathe, to think. One thing was clear: I could not let this guy carve up a body in my motel. If he did, the police would comb the place from attic to septic tank. I needed him gone. Now.