A CRY FOR HELP, page 12
The dismissal in his tone was unmistakable. Though his concern seemed genuine, he still didn't believe her—not really. Ann nodded mechanically, too exhausted to argue further. She finished cleaning her tables in silence, then gathered her belongings from the break room, hyperaware of Tom watching her with that same pitying expression.
Chapter 23
I kept my shoulder blades pressed against the wall, the position giving me an unobstructed view of both library exits. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in an irregular pattern that matched my frayed nerves. Seventeen people occupied the computer lab—two elderly men researching genealogy, a college student with headphones nodding to music as she typed, a woman with three restless children, and eleven others whose behaviors I'd categorized from least to most concerning. My eyes never stopped moving, cataloging new arrivals, tracking the bored security guard by the main entrance, watching for any face that lingered too long on Matt as his fingers flew across the keyboard in the corner terminal.
I shifted my weight slightly, easing the pressure on my injured side. The cut from our motel escape had mostly healed, but the tender flesh still protested when I stood too long in one position. The library's air conditioning raised goosebumps on my arms, a stark contrast to the humid Tampa heat outside. I adjusted my baseball cap lower, feeling exposed.
Matt's posture betrayed nothing of our desperate circumstances—shoulders relaxed, expression neutral as he navigated through digital barriers with practiced efficiency. Only I could see the tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he concentrated. His body blocked most of the screen from casual observers, a precaution we'd discussed before entering. If anyone asked, we were researching local history for a family project. Our story wouldn't hold up to intense scrutiny, but it didn't need to. We only needed enough time to find what we came for and disappear again.
A teenage boy entered the computer lab, hood pulled low over his face. I tracked his movements, noting the nervous energy in his gait, the way his eyes darted around the room. Just a kid skipping school, not a threat. Still, I maintained my vigilance as he settled at a terminal across the room.
"Eva Rae," Matt's voice reached me as the barest whisper, audible only because I was attuned to it after years together. His right hand made a subtle gesture we'd established earlier—two fingers tapping against his thigh. He'd found something.
I casually moved to stand behind him, positioning myself so I could see the screen while maintaining sight lines to both exits and the security guard, who had now turned his attention to an elderly woman asking for help finding a book. My fingers brushed Matt's shoulder, a touch that might appear affectionate to observers but served as acknowledgment of his signal.
"Collins' email," Matt murmured, his voice barely audible. "I've bypassed the security questions. He wasn't particularly creative with his passwords."
The screen displayed Richard Collins' Gmail account, the inbox populated with the mundane correspondence of everyday life—work emails, shopping receipts, newsletters. Matt had already sorted them by sender, highlighting a recurring address that stood out from the corporate domains and services: TrueLove4Ever@mailsecure.com.
"Twenty-three messages in the last month alone," Matt said, clicking on the oldest one.
The email opened, revealing a message that seemed innocuous at first glance:
Saw you at Parkside Café today. You looked so handsome in that blue shirt. I loved how you stirred your coffee three times before drinking it—always so precise. Maybe next time I'll find the courage to say hello instead of watching from across the room.
"Check the next one," I whispered, unease crawling up my spine at the intimate details observed without Collins' knowledge.
Matt clicked through to a message sent three days later:
You didn't come to the café today. I waited for two hours. Did something happen? Are you sick? I drove by your office but couldn't see you through the windows. Hope you're taking care of yourself. Remember that chicken soup you mentioned liking when you were talking to the barista last week? I could bring some by…
The progression continued through the emails, each revealing a deeper descent into delusion and obsession:
Why aren't you responding to my messages? I know you read them—I can see the read receipts. Are you playing hard to get? That's okay. I understand the game. I've always known we're meant to be together.
Saw you having lunch with that woman from your office today. She touched your arm twice and laughed at everything you said. She's not right for you. She can't understand you like I do. We have a connection that's special.
Three days and no response to my last seven messages. I'm worried about you. Or maybe you're deliberately ignoring me? After everything I've done? After how patient I've been? I deserve better than this silence.
The final message sent chills through me despite the library's warmth:
If I can't have you, no one will. You've forced my hand, Richard. I've been so patient, so understanding. I've given you every chance to recognize what we have. This is your last warning. Choose wisely.
This message had been sent two days before Collins' body appeared in my trunk.
"This is classic erotomaniac stalking progression," I whispered, my profiler's training automatically analyzing the pattern. "The delusional belief in a non-existent relationship, the perceived slights, the escalation from adoration to entitlement to threats." I pointed to specific phrases, my finger hovering over the screen without touching it. "See how they move from observation to interaction to possession? The language becomes increasingly proprietary—'after everything I've done,' 'you've forced my hand.'"
Matt nodded, continuing to navigate through Collins's inbox. "Collins never replied to any of these. Not once. But he saved them all in a separate folder labeled 'Evidence.'" He clicked into the folder, revealing dozens more messages, meticulously preserved.
"He knew he was being stalked," I said, my mind racing through the implications. "He was documenting it, probably planning to go to the police. We know he got a restraining order on someone. This must be that same person." I glanced toward the security guard, who had returned to his post by the entrance after helping the woman get to the librarian. "Can you access his sent mail? See if he reached out to anyone about this?"
Matt nodded, fingers dancing across the keyboard as he navigated to Collins's sent items. I maintained my vigilance, cataloging each person who entered or left the computer lab and assessing their body language for potential threats. The teenage boy had settled into what appeared to be an online game. The woman with children was now helping her youngest use a drawing program. Nothing triggered my internal alarms, but I remained alert.
"Look at this," Matt said, opening a message Collins had sent to himself as a draft. "It's a list of incidents—dates, times, and observations."
The document detailed multiple encounters with someone Collins believed was following him—a figure glimpsed outside his apartment, a car that frequently appeared in his office parking lot, and flowers delivered with no sender information. The final entry, dated three days before his body was found in my trunk, read simply: Called Sarah to discuss concerns. Meeting tomorrow night.
Sarah. Again, her name appeared, another thread connecting her to Collins. My jaw tightened as I processed this new information, the betrayal burning fresh. She did tell me that she and Collins flirted and knew each other from her store. But it sounds like they were more than that. Like they were actually friends? Or maybe lovers?
"Keep searching," I instructed Matt, my eyes scanning the room once more. "We need to know exactly what connection Sarah had to Collins, and why she never mentioned knowing him this well."
Matt nodded, already diving deeper into Collins' digital footprint as I resumed my position by the wall, more determined than ever to unravel the web closing around us.
The sharp squeak of rubber-soled shoes against linoleum cut through the library's hushed atmosphere. My head lifted fractionally at the sound, tracking its source without appearing to look directly. A middle-aged woman with steel-gray hair cut in a precise bob approached from the reference desk, glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck. Her cardigan—navy blue with pearl buttons—and sensible shoes marked her as staff rather than security, but the purposeful line of her mouth concerned me more than any uniform. She was heading straight for our terminal, her eyes narrowing with the particular focus of someone who has spotted something out of place.
I shifted my weight imperceptibly, preparing to move. The woman's gait was unhurried but determined, each footstep a soft squeak against the polished floor. My assessment was immediate and automatic—late fifties, no obvious physical training, likely unarmed except perhaps for pepper spray on her keychain, but her hand was already drifting toward the phone clipped to her belt. Far more dangerous than her physical presence was what a single call from her could summon.
I tapped Matt's shoulder twice—our prearranged signal for approaching threat. His response was immediate, though nothing in his posture betrayed alarm. Without breaking rhythm in his typing, he minimized Collins' files and inserted a flash drive into the USB port.
"Starting transfer," he murmured, his voice barely audible as his fingers initiated the copying process. A progress bar appeared on screen—15% complete and crawling forward with excruciating slowness.
The librarian was thirty feet away now, her path taking her between computer stations, gaze focused on our corner. She'd removed the glasses from around her neck and perched them on her nose, squinting slightly as she looked in our direction. The recognition hadn't happened yet, but it was coming—I could see the process beginning as her brow furrowed, mental connections forming.
"Library security protocols," I whispered to Matt. "She'll check ID first before making accusations. Standard procedure gives us approximately forty-five seconds from initial contact."
Matt nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes fixed on the progress bar: 27%.
I moved from my position against the wall, deliberately placing myself between the approaching librarian and Matt's screen. The transfer needed another minute at least—time we might not have once recognition sparked. I adjusted my baseball cap lower, though I knew the gesture was likely futile. My face had been plastered across every news outlet in Florida for days; the cap was camouflage at a distance but wouldn't withstand scrutiny.
The librarian stopped three feet away, close enough that I could smell her light floral perfume and see the Tampa Public Library name badge pinned to her cardigan: HEAD LIBRARIAN in block letters beneath the library logo.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice carrying the practiced quiet of someone who had spent decades in hushed spaces. "I need to see some identification, please." Her eyes moved between Matt and me, settling more intently on my face with each passing second.
I shifted my stance, angling my body to block her view of the screen where the progress bar had reached 42%. Every microsecond mattered now.
"Identification?" I repeated, injecting confusion and slight indignation into my tone while keeping my voice low. "We're just doing some research for a family project."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as she studied my face more carefully. "I believe all patrons were informed upon entry that ID is required for computer use." Her gaze drifted toward the screen, but I subtly shifted again, maintaining the visual barrier.
"My husband has his license," I said, nodding toward Matt without taking my eyes off her. I could see the moment recognition began to crystallize—the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips, the small step backward she took unconsciously. She knew who I was now.
"You're—" she began, her hand moving decisively toward the phone at her belt.
I didn't let her finish. "We'll be going now," I said calmly, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "No need to call anyone."
Matt's subtle head tilt told me the transfer had completed. He ejected the flash drive and pocketed it in one smooth motion, then closed the browser and cleared the history with three precise keystrokes. We had seconds at most before the librarian recovered from her shock.
"You're that FBI agent," she said, voice rising slightly above appropriate library volume. "The one who—"
"Ma'am, please step aside," I interrupted, my tone firm but not threatening. The last thing we needed was to create a scene that would draw immediate attention.
Her hand had reached the phone now, fingers curling around it as she took another step back. "I need to call security," she announced, louder now.
Matt stood, gathering our minimal belongings with calm efficiency. We moved in tandem, stepping away from the terminal in perfect synchronization born from days on the run together. The librarian's voice rose behind us—"Stop right there!"—but we were already moving through the stacks, our pace deliberate rather than panicked.
"Don't run," I murmured to Matt as we navigated between shelves of reference materials. "Running draws attention. Walk with purpose."
He nodded, matching my stride as we wound through the library's labyrinthine arrangement of bookcases. Behind us, I could hear the librarian on her phone, her urgent whispers carrying in the quiet space. Other patrons had begun to look up from their books and computers, curiosity drawing their attention to the commotion.
We reached the non-fiction section, where I'd noted a side exit during our arrival. Standard library security protocol would focus on covering the main entrances first, leaving secondary exits vulnerable for precious extra seconds. The door—marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY—would trigger an alarm when opened, but by then we'd be moving through the adjacent courtyard.
"Security's coming from the main entrance," Matt observed quietly, nodding toward the front of the library where two uniformed guards had appeared, scanning the space with practiced efficiency.
"Ten seconds," I responded, maintaining our measured pace through the American History section. We reached the emergency door just as one of the guards spotted us, his hand moving to the radio at his shoulder as he pointed in our direction.
Matt pushed the door open, and the alarm immediately blared through the previously hushed library. Bright afternoon sunlight momentarily blinded me as we stepped into the courtyard, but I'd memorized the layout when we arrived—fifteen steps to the wrought iron fence with the broken section, then across Palmetto Street to the alley where we'd left our latest "borrowed" vehicle.
We moved with controlled urgency, not the panicked flight of the guilty but the strategic withdrawal of trained operatives. Behind us, voices shouted orders as the security team organized pursuit. Too late. We slipped through the gap in the fence and crossed the street, blending into a group of college students waiting at the crosswalk.
Matt's hand found mine, his fingers warm as they closed around my cold ones.
"She recognized me immediately," I said as we reached the alley, our pace never faltering despite the sounds of pursuit fading behind us. "Our window for moving freely in public is closing fast."
As we pulled away from the curb, I glanced back at the library once more. The security guards had reached the fence but stopped there, speaking into their radios. They hadn't seen which vehicle we'd entered. Another small victory in a war that seemed increasingly desperate.
Chapter 24
THEN:
The minute hand on the wall clock crept toward the three, each incremental movement drawing Ann's eyes like a magnet. 1:15 approached—the time that had become the center of her days, the hour that divided her life into before and after. Her fingers trembled slightly as she delivered a club sandwich to table seven, her shoulders rigid despite her attempts to appear relaxed. Three consecutive days she'd switched shifts, worked evenings, called in sick—anything to break the pattern, to avoid being where Marcus expected her to be. But Tom had insisted she return to her regular lunch shift today, his patience with her "paranoia" visibly wearing thin.
"You can't keep rearranging your life over this," he'd told her that morning, arms crossed over his chest. "Either file a formal complaint or move on."
As if it were that simple. As if a complaint against an officer would be taken seriously without overwhelming evidence. Ann's documentation had grown to pages of notes, photographs, and timestamps—but would it be enough? The question twisted in her mind like a knife as she refilled water glasses, her eyes darting to the clock again. 1:12.
The lunch crowd hummed around her—clinking silverware, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter from the corner booth where three women in business attire shared a bottle of wine. Normal sounds, everyday life continuing, while Ann's world had narrowed to watching and waiting, to the constant awareness of potentially being watched herself.
She made her way to the kitchen, pulse quickening as she pushed through the swinging door. From here, she could see the wall clock and the front entrance simultaneously. 1:13. Her chest tightened, restricting her breathing to shallow sips of air that couldn't quite satisfy her lungs.
Chef Cho glanced up from plating a salmon dish, her eyes narrowing as she took in Ann's rigid posture. "It's almost time," she said quietly, the words not a question but a recognition.
Ann nodded, unable to form words as her throat constricted. She collected her waiting order—Cobb salad, dressing on the side—and returned to the dining room, the plate's weight requiring conscious effort to keep steady. 1:14.
The front door opened, and Ann nearly dropped the salad. An elderly couple entered, the man helping his wife remove her light jacket. Not Marcus. Ann's shoulders dropped slightly, her breathing resuming a more natural rhythm as she delivered the salad to table four.
