A CRY FOR HELP, page 10
"Eva Rae Thomas," he said, my name sounding like a case number in his mouth. "You look remarkably composed for someone the entire state is hunting."
"Cut the commentary, Ramirez," I replied, keeping my voice level despite the irritation flaring beneath my skin. "Matt says you can help us. I need to know if that's true before we waste any more time."
A smile flickered across his face—there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Direct as ever." He gestured toward his car. "I brought information. Shall we discuss it here in the open, or would you prefer the privacy of my vehicle?"
"Here is fine," I said immediately, unwilling to surrender any tactical advantage by confining ourselves in his car. "What do you know about Richard Collins?"
Juan's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Not even a 'thank you for coming' or 'how have you been since the department threw you under the bus'?" He checked his watch again, the action deliberate, almost taunting. "Interesting. Why would you begin with Collins specifically, rather than asking about the frame-up more broadly?"
My jaw tightened. This was exactly what Matt had warned me about—Juan's tendency to answer questions with questions, to probe for reactions rather than provide information freely. I could feel my patience fraying at the edges, threads of control threatening to unravel.
"I don't have time for games," I said. "Collins was placed in my trunk for a reason. I need to know why."
"Everyone has time for games, Agent Thomas," Juan replied, emphasizing my former title. "That's what this is, isn't it? Someone's elaborately constructed game, with you as the unwitting player." He took three measured steps forward, stopping at what he clearly calculated was the edge of my comfort zone. "The question isn't why Collins was in your trunk—it's why you specifically were chosen as the frame."
Matt shifted beside me, his posture subtly protective though he remained silent. I could feel his analytical gaze moving between Juan and me, assessing, calculating.
"We know I was chosen deliberately," I said, struggling to keep the edge from my voice. "What I need are facts, not philosophical observations about my situation."
"Facts." Juan let the word hang in the air between us. "Like the fact that Collins' death wasn't random? Or the fact that someone with intimate knowledge of forensic procedure used a murder weapon so similar to yours, it’s hard to explain away?" His eyes—dark and unnervingly perceptive—never left my face. "Or perhaps the fact that Victor Reeves has been following you since his release?"
My breath caught. We'd discovered Reeves' potential involvement on our own, but Juan's casual mention of it suggested he knew far more than he should. My mind raced, trying to determine how he'd acquired this information and what else he might know.
"How long have you been watching me?" I demanded, taking an involuntary step forward.
"Long enough to know you're running out of time and options," Juan replied, unperturbed by my advance. "The question is, Agent Thomas, are you ready to hear what I've found, or would you prefer to continue this verbal sparring until the next shift of security guards arrives in approximately forty-three minutes?"
The overhead light flickered, casting Juan's face in momentary shadow before illuminating it again. In that split second, I made my decision—not based on trust, which I couldn't afford, but on necessity, which I couldn't ignore.
"Show me," I said simply, forcing my shoulders to relax even as every instinct screamed for caution.
Juan nodded once, a gesture that acknowledged the reluctant truce between us. "Then let's not waste any more time. Let me show you."
Chapter 20
Juan moved to his car with deliberate steps, opened the passenger door, and retrieved a sleek laptop. His movements were precise and economical, as if choreographed to convey professionalism. He placed the computer on the Cadillac's hood, the metal still warm from the engine's heat. When he opened it, the screen cast an eerie blue glow across our faces, transforming the dim garage into something otherworldly. I watched his fingers tap across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, noting how he positioned the screen so both Matt and I could see it clearly while maintaining control of the device. Trust only extends so far in our world.
"These are internal police reports," Juan said, opening a folder labeled with an alphanumeric code I recognized as Tampa PD's filing system. "Not the sanitized versions released to the press."
I leaned closer, my eyes scanning the document that appeared on screen. Autopsy report for Richard Collins, complete with crime scene photos I hadn't seen before. The clinical language of death contrasted with the violent reality captured in the images. Photos from what appeared to be his living room floor, blood patterns suggesting he'd been standing when first shot, then fallen and been shot again.
"Page four," Juan directed, his manicured finger tapping the screen. "Cause of death and ballistics."
Matt shifted beside me, moving into a better position to see while maintaining his vigilance of our surroundings. I felt the slight pressure of his arm against mine—a small, anchoring touch in the midst of chaos.
I scrolled to page four, my eyes immediately locking onto the highlighted section. "Victim sustained two gunshot wounds, consistent with .38 caliber rounds, likely fired from a Smith & Wesson Model 642."
My blood went cold. The Smith & Wesson 642 was a common enough weapon, but it was also my weapon of choice throughout my FBI career. The gun I'd carried for years, the one I'd trained with until it felt like an extension of my hand.
"That's my gun," I said, the words barely audible above the drip of water somewhere in the distance. "Not just the same model—that specific description matches my service weapon exactly."
Juan's expression remained neutral, but his eyes tracked my reaction with scientific interest. "I thought it might," he said. "So, the killer used an identical weapon. That suggests they know you intimately. Not just your movements or your schedule, but your preferences, your history.”
The implication hung in the air between us, heavy with menace. Someone who knew me well enough to choose the exact weapon model I preferred. Someone who understood that this detail would add another layer of circumstantial evidence against me, another thread in the tapestry of my supposed guilt.
"There's more," Juan continued, scrolling to another document. "The bullets recovered from Collins' body had rifling marks consistent with a newer weapon—manufactured within the last two years. But according to your service records, you've had your .38 for over a decade."
Matt spoke for the first time since Juan had opened the laptop. "So, whoever did this knew enough to match the caliber and model but didn't account for the age difference in the ballistics."
"A small mistake," Juan agreed, "but potentially significant. It's the kind of detail that might eventually create reasonable doubt—if your case ever made it to trial."
"If," I repeated, the word bitter on my tongue. “If I’m not killed before then.”
"Collins was killed by the first gunshot, a shot to the back of the head. Execution style." His finger tapped rhythmically against the hood of his car as he spoke. "No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. No signs of forced entry."
I processed this information, turning it over in my mind like a puzzle piece seeking its fit. "He knew his killer."
"Or at least didn't perceive them as a threat until it was too late," Juan corrected. "You don’t turn your back on someone you’re afraid of."
“Or maybe they snuck up on him from behind.”
“Sure.”
Matt had moved slightly behind Juan while he spoke, his detective's eyes studying the man's every micro-expression and body language. I caught Matt's gaze briefly—a subtle nod indicating that, so far, he detected no deception. Juan was telling us what he believed to be true, though that didn't necessarily make it accurate.
I thought about Victor Reeves—his brute-force approach, his lack of subtlety, his preference for direct confrontation rather than manipulation. "But this murder doesn’t have Reeves’ signature. It doesn’t look like his work."
Juan's lips curved in what might have been approval. "Maybe he’s changing things up? He knows you know his methods, so perhaps he changed to hide that it was him? If the main goal was to frame you, he would be smart enough not to leave a trace that could lead to him."
I stared at the autopsy photos still displayed on the screen, the clinical documentation of violence that had set this nightmare in motion. Someone had selected Richard Collins specifically, had executed him with a weapon chosen to implicate me, had planted his body in my trunk, and ensured I would be discovered with it. Someone who knew me well enough to anticipate my reactions, to predict how I would respond when cornered.
Someone who was still watching, still maneuvering pieces on a board I couldn't fully see.
"There's something connecting Collins to me," I said, certainty hardening in my voice. "Something beyond the frame-up. He wasn't chosen at random."
Juan nodded slowly. "That's what I believe as well. The question is—what was that connection, and why did it make him a target?"
Matt shifted his weight, drawing my attention. His expression remained neutral, but I recognized the slight narrowing of his eyes—he was processing something, seeing a pattern I hadn't yet grasped.
"We need to dig deeper into Collins' life," I said, my mind already mapping the investigation that needed to happen. "Financial records, phone logs, social media—anything that might reveal who he was in contact with in the weeks before his death."
"Already working on it," Juan replied, closing the laptop. The blue glow disappeared, plunging our faces back into the garage's dim lighting. "But there's something else you should keep in mind."
I waited, tension coiling between my shoulder blades.
"Whoever is behind this," Juan said, his voice dropping lower, "I don’t think they’re finished. They could be constructing a narrative of escalation—making you appear more desperate, more dangerous with each passing day."
The implication was clear: more bodies would follow. More deaths would be laid at my feet and more lives destroyed in the effort to destroy mine.
Chapter 21
I closed my eyes for a moment, processing the implications of what Juan had just shared. When I opened them again, the garage seemed colder somehow, the dripping water in the distance marking time with metronomic persistence. Juan had delivered facts with clinical precision, each one another piece in the puzzle of my framing. But I sensed he was holding something back—a final revelation he was reluctant to share. His fingers tapped against the closed laptop, a subtle tell that betrayed his internal debate.
"We should move," Matt said, his voice low as he checked his watch. "We've been stationary too long."
Juan nodded, sliding the laptop into a sleek leather case. "I'll continue investigating Collins' background. Financial records sometimes reveal connections that personal histories obscure." He secured the case with practiced efficiency, his movements betraying no wasted energy.
"How do we contact you?" I asked, already calculating our next moves, the safe houses we might use, the identities we might temporarily assume. “Without anyone being able to find out that you’re helping us?”
"You don't," Juan replied, straightening his immaculate suit jacket. "I'll find you when I have something concrete."
I didn't like that arrangement—it placed too much control in his hands, left us waiting rather than acting. But I recognized the logic behind it. Every communication was a risk, every contact point a potential trap. Juan was relying on his resources within the force and couldn’t risk losing them.
Juan turned toward his car, then paused, his hand resting on the door handle. The hesitation was slight but noticeable—a disruption in his otherwise fluid movements. Something in his posture shifted, a subtle squaring of the shoulders that suggested he'd made a decision.
"There's something else you should know," he said, not turning to face us. "I was at the police station yesterday, following up on a different case."
The change in his voice—a slight flattening of tone—triggered my internal alarms. Whatever came next wouldn't be good news.
"I saw your friend there," he continued. "The bookstore owner. Sarah Winters."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Sarah, who had spoken with such conviction about helping me clear my name. Sarah, whose eyes had darted nervously to her phone more than once during our conversation.
"What was she doing there?" I kept my voice neutral despite the sudden thundering of my pulse.
Juan finally turned, his expression carefully composed. "Giving a statement. About your 'erratic behavior' when you came to her store at night and asked her for help. About how Collins was a huge fan of yours and was at the bookstore for the signing." His eyes met mine, watching for my reaction. “I have a source there who gave me the details."
My face had hardened into a mask, but beneath it, my mind raced through every interaction with Sarah, searching for signs I'd missed: The too-convenient offer of help, the nervous glances at her phone, the way she'd directed our conversation toward specific topics while avoiding others.
Did she believe I was guilty? Was that why she went to the police? Was she reporting back to them about me?
Why?
Maybe she was just covering herself, making sure she wouldn’t be in trouble for helping me. Maybe she was just pretending to believe me, because she was afraid I might harm her? I guess I couldn’t blame her, but it still hurt.
"Did she see you?" Matt asked, practical as always.
Juan shook his head. "I made sure she didn't."
The betrayal settled in my stomach like ice. I'd trusted Sarah—not completely, not blindly, but enough to accept her help when we were desperate. Enough to reveal our presence to her when staying hidden was our only advantage.
"She's an informant," I said, the words barely audible.
Matt's hand came to rest on my shoulder, a warm weight that anchored me as my mind spun through implications. “We have to be more careful who we trust.”
The garage suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. If Sarah had betrayed us, she might have shared information about our whereabouts, maybe that’s how they found us at the motel the next morning. Of course it was. That only made sense. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows harboring new threats.
"We should go," I said, moving toward our exit route—the northwest stairwell we'd identified upon arrival. "This location is not safe."
Matt fell into step beside me, his movements as fluid and controlled as my own. We'd developed a rhythm in our days on the run, a synchronized dance of survival that required no verbal coordination.
Chapter 22
THEN:
Ann's hands trembled as she tied her apron strings, fumbling twice before the bow took shape behind her back. She'd arrived fifteen minutes early for her shift, scanning the parking lot before darting inside Granger's through the back entrance. No patrol cars today—at least none she could see. Her neck prickled with the phantom sensation of being watched anyway. This feeling had become her constant companion since Marcus Hale first walked into the restaurant and fixed those observant eyes on her.
The break room was mercifully empty except for Miriam, who sat at the small table folding napkins into perfect triangles, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She looked up as Ann entered, her brows immediately knitting together.
"Jesus, Ann. You look like you haven't slept in days."
Ann touched the shadows she knew must be visible beneath her eyes. "Is it that obvious?"
"Like a neon sign." Miriam pushed a stack of napkins toward her. "Here, make yourself useful while you tell me what's going on."
Ann sank into the chair opposite Miriam, taking a napkin with unsteady fingers. The white cloth felt cool and crisp, a small anchor to reality as her thoughts threatened to spiral. The rhythmic motion of folding—corner to corner, smoothing the crease, folding again—gradually steadied her hands, though her heart continued its rapid drumming against her ribs.
"It's Marcus," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, though they were alone. "Officer Hale. I think… I think he's stalking me."
The word hung in the air between them, ugly and stark. Ann had avoided saying it aloud until now, as if naming the fear would make it more real, more dangerous.
Miriam's fingers stilled mid-fold. "What makes you think that?"
Ann recounted everything—the traffic stop the morning after their first meeting, his daily arrivals at precisely 1:15, the patrol cars that seemed to shadow her movements, the feeling of being watched in her own apartment. With each detail, her voice grew steadier, more certain, even as her hands resumed their trembling.
"And last night," Ann continued, leaning closer, "A neighbor told me she's seen patrol car number 37 parked outside my apartment complex several evenings this week. Just watching."
"Really?" Miriam frowned.
"Yeah, this neighbor—Rosa Alvarez—is always watching everything. She keeps track of unusual activity in the neighborhood. Has for years." Ann swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "And Chef Cho—she believes me too. She said her ex-husband was a cop who did the same thing to her after they separated."
Miriam set down her napkin, reaching across to squeeze Ann's wrist. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? This is serious, Ann."
"I thought I was being paranoid." Ann looked down at her half-folded napkin, now crumpled from her grip. "Everyone keeps saying how charming he is, how he must just have a crush on me."
"Men," Miriam muttered, rolling her eyes. "Look, you shouldn't have to deal with him today. Let's switch sections."
Ann's head snapped up. "You'd do that?"
"Of course I would. He always comes at 1:15, right? You take my section by the kitchen, and I'll handle his table when he comes in." Miriam stood, smoothing her apron. "Let's check the chart and make it official."
