A CRY FOR HELP, page 16
The pitcher threatened to slip from Ann's suddenly numb fingers. She clutched it against her chest, pivoted sharply, and walked with measured steps toward the kitchen. Not running. Running would attract attention, would confirm her fear. But every instinct screamed at her to flee, to escape those eyes that tracked her movement across the dining room floor.
Ann pushed through the swinging kitchen doors with her shoulder, the familiar sounds of the kitchen—the sizzle of the grill, the clatter of plates, Chef Cho's precise instructions to the line cook—enveloping her like a protective cocoon. She set the water pitcher down with trembling hands, breathing in short, shallow gasps that couldn't quite satisfy her lungs.
"Porter? You look like you've seen a ghost." Chef Cho glanced up from the grill, her knife pausing mid-slice through a red pepper.
"He's here," Ann whispered, the words catching in her dry throat. "Marcus. With another officer."
Chef Cho's expression shifted, understanding immediately. She set down her knife with deliberate care. "In your section?"
"They'll request it." Ann moved toward the chef, desperation evident in her rigid posture. "I can't go out there. Please—can someone cover my tables? Just until they leave?"
Chef Cho wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes narrowing as she moved to the pass-through window, peering discreetly into the dining room. Ann watched her take in the situation—the two officers now being led by the hostess toward a table in Ann's section, Marcus's rigid posture and searching gaze.
"Jake," Chef Cho called to the junior line cook. "Take over the grill."
The young man nodded, sliding into position as Chef Cho stepped away. She turned to Ann, her expression resolute. "Stay in the kitchen. I'll tell Miriam to cover your tables." She hesitated, then added, "Use the pass-through window. Watch what happens."
Ann nodded gratefully, positioning herself where she could observe the dining room without being easily spotted from the tables. She kept her body angled away from the direct line of sight, only her eyes and part of her face visible through the narrow opening.
In the dining room, Marcus and Ramirez were being seated at table twelve, directly in her section as she'd predicted. The hostess placed menus before them, her smile professional but tight. Ann watched as Marcus's gaze swept the restaurant again, lingering on the kitchen doors, his expression darkening when minutes passed without Ann's reappearance.
He leaned toward Ramirez, saying something Ann couldn't hear from her position. The other officer nodded, her expression neutral, hands folded on the table in front of her. Unlike Marcus, Ramirez seemed relaxed, as if this were simply a normal lunch break rather than part of whatever game Marcus was playing.
Ann's heart pounded against her ribs as she watched Miriam approach their table, notepad in hand. Miriam's posture was stiff, her professional smile not reaching her eyes as she took their drink orders. When Marcus spoke to her, gesturing toward the kitchen, Miriam's shoulders tensed visibly.
"He's asking about you," Chef Cho murmured, standing close enough to observe without drawing attention to Ann's position. "Miriam's handling it well."
As if on cue, Tom emerged from his office, his eyes immediately finding the officers' table. Ann watched as Miriam gestured subtly toward him, then retreated to the service station. Tom approached Marcus and Ramirez, his broad shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back—the stance he took when dealing with difficult customers.
The conversation that unfolded was visible only through body language from Ann's limited vantage point. Tom stood stiffly, nodding occasionally at whatever Marcus was saying. Marcus leaned forward in his chair, one hand on the table, fingers splayed—a position of dominance, of claiming space. Officer Ramirez remained mostly silent, her eyes drifting around the restaurant, occasionally settling on the kitchen doors where Ann hid.
"What are they saying?" Ann whispered to Chef Cho, who had moved closer to the window.
"Can't hear from here," Chef Cho replied, her expression grim. "But your officer doesn't look happy."
Ann flinched at the possessive—"your officer"—but couldn't deny the accuracy of Chef Cho's observation. Marcus's posture had grown increasingly rigid, his gestures more clipped as the conversation with Tom continued. Tom's stance remained firm, though Ann noted the slight shifting of his weight from foot to foot—a tell she recognized from when customers complained about the food.
After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a few minutes, Tom nodded once more and turned toward the kitchen. Ann backed away from the window, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain everyone could hear it. Chef Cho squeezed her shoulder briefly before returning to the grill, leaving Ann standing alone, arms wrapped around herself as if holding her body together by force.
The kitchen door swung open, and Tom entered, his expression troubled. His eyes found Ann immediately, noting her position away from the pass-through, her defensive posture.
"Ann," he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Can I speak with you?"
"What did he want?" The question burst from her before she could stop herself.
Tom glanced over his shoulder at the closed kitchen door. "He asked where you were. Said he was concerned when he didn't see you on the floor." He paused, his brow furrowing. "He mentioned something about checking on your welfare after your traffic incident the other day."
Ann's chest tightened, the air suddenly insufficient in the warm kitchen. "Did you tell him I'm here?"
"I said you weren't feeling well and were taking a short break," Tom replied, studying her face with new intensity. "Ann, he seemed to know an awful lot about your schedule. Asked if you were still planning to close tonight, whether you usually parked in the back lot or the side entrance."
A small sound escaped Ann's throat—not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, but something between the two. "Did he leave?" she managed.
Tom shook his head. "They ordered lunch. He said he'd wait to make sure you're okay before he leaves." He hesitated, then added, "He seems pretty determined to see you."
Ann pressed her back against the cool metal of the prep station, the edge digging into her spine—an anchor point of physical discomfort to distract from the spiraling terror in her mind. Marcus wasn't going to leave. He would wait, watching the kitchen doors, trapping her in the back of the restaurant like a cornered animal.
And he'd brought another officer with him this time—a witness, perhaps. Someone who would see only a concerned colleague checking on a citizen after a traffic incident, not the calculated pursuit that had become Ann's waking nightmare.
Ann pressed herself into the corner of the empty staff room, the hard plastic chair digging uncomfortably into her back as she hunched over her phone. The small space felt like her only sanctuary in the restaurant since Marcus and Officer Ramirez had finally left twenty minutes ago, after lingering over their meal for nearly two hours. She'd remained in the kitchen the entire time, helping Chef Cho prep vegetables, wiping down already clean counters, anything to justify her continued absence from the dining room. Now, during her delayed break, her trembling fingers typed words into her phone's search bar that made her stomach clench: "police officer stalking."
The search results populated her screen instantly—a cascade of links that seemed to pulse with foreboding. "When Your Stalker Wears a Badge." "Police Powers: The Perfect Cover for Predatory Behavior." "Few Consequences When Cops Stalk, Harass, Threaten Women." Ann's throat tightened as she clicked the first link, scrolling through a detailed article about a Florida woman whose complaints against a police officer were repeatedly dismissed until he broke into her home.
She clicked back and selected another article. This one profiled three separate cases of women stalked by officers who had pulled them over for minor traffic violations—the initial point of contact that had spiraled into months of surveillance, intimidation, and fear. Ann's hands began to shake more violently as she recognized the pattern: traffic stops for infractions that hadn't occurred. Patrol cars driving by homes at odd hours. Officers "coincidentally" appearing at workplaces.
The third article detailed how officers could access driver's license databases, vehicle registrations, and even criminal history systems to gather personal information about their targets. One woman had moved three times, each time finding her stalker had her new address within days. Another had her friends and family members pulled over repeatedly when the officer couldn't locate her directly.
"Jesus," Ann whispered, the word escaping on a shaky exhale as she scrolled further.
The most disturbing section detailed the lack of accountability: police departments investigating their own; officers placed on paid leave, then reinstated. Complaints dismissed for "insufficient evidence." Victims labeled as unstable, attention-seeking, or mentally ill when they persisted in reporting the harassment.
Ann took screenshots of the most relevant sections, creating a new folder on her phone labeled "Research." She added them alongside her growing collection of photos.
The staff room door swung open, and Ann startled violently, nearly dropping her phone. Miriam stood in the doorway, concern etched across her features.
"You okay? Tom's looking for you," she said quietly.
Ann nodded, locking her phone screen with trembling fingers. "Did he say what he wants?"
"Just that he needs to speak with you before you clock out." Miriam hesitated. "They're gone, Ann. Both of them left about twenty minutes ago."
"I know." Ann stood, smoothing her apron with hands that wouldn't quite steady. "I saw them leave from the kitchen window."
As Ann made her way back to the dining room, the knot in her stomach tightened with each step. Tom stood by the host stand, his brow furrowed as he checked reservations on the computer. He glanced up as she approached, his expression shifting to something between concern and frustration.
"There you are," he said, guiding her to a quiet corner near the entrance, his voice low but firm. "We need to talk about what happened earlier."
Ann hugged her arms across her chest, creating a physical barrier between them. "I couldn't face him, Tom. I just couldn't."
"Marcus specifically asked where you were," Tom said, watching her reaction carefully. "He said he was worried about you after pulling you over. Something about you seeming unusually distressed during the stop."
A bitter laugh escaped Ann's throat before she could stop it. "Of course, I was distressed. He's been following me for weeks. Watching my apartment. Driving past my building at two in the morning." Her voice rose slightly before she caught herself, glancing around to ensure no customers were within earshot.
"Ann—"
"I have proof," she interrupted, fumbling with her phone. She pulled up the photos from the previous night, the timestamp clearly visible in the corner. "This is his patrol car outside my apartment at two a.m. Look at the car number—37. The same one that's been following me. The same one my neighbor saw."
Tom took the phone, squinting at the small screen. "It's a patrol car, Ann. They patrol. That's literally their job."
"At two in the morning? Parked in the same spot for over an hour, watching my building?" Ann swiped to the next photo, then the next. "And what about the traffic stop two days ago? I didn't roll through that stop sign, Tom. I was counting in my head, making sure I came to a complete stop specifically so he wouldn't have an excuse to pull me over."
Tom handed back the phone, his expression softening into something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Ann, are you sure you're not reading too much into this? He seems like a devoted regular to me."
Ann's voice cracked. "Who showed up at my apartment complex at two in the morning?"
"Listen," Tom placed a hand on her shoulder that was clearly meant to be comforting, but felt like a weight pinning her in place. "I've known Marcus for years. He's a good officer with a solid reputation. If he pulled you over, I'm sure he had a reason."
"That's exactly the problem," Ann whispered, the fight suddenly draining from her body. "Everyone thinks he's just a good cop doing his job. No one can see what's happening."
Tom sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Look, finish your shift, go home, and get some rest. Things will seem clearer after a good night's sleep."
Ann nodded mechanically, recognizing the dismissal in his tone. The assumption that she was overreacting, imagining connections that weren't there, creating problems where none existed.
As her shift wound down, Ann moved through her closing duties with mechanical efficiency, her mind racing with the information she'd discovered during her research. Every few minutes, her eyes darted to the windows, scanning the parking lot for white and blue patrol cars.
Just as she finished, movement outside the front window caught her eye. A patrol car cruised slowly past the restaurant, its headlights illuminating the darkening parking lot with sweeping beams. Though she couldn't make out the driver's face or the car number from this distance, Ann's body responded with immediate, visceral recognition—her heart rate doubling, her palms growing damp with cold sweat, and her lungs constricting until breathing became a conscious effort.
She ducked behind the host stand, pressing her back against the wooden structure as if it could shield her from those searching lights. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and called Lena.
"Hey, what's up?" Lena's voice came through, casual and warm.
"Are you still at the restaurant?" Ann whispered, her eyes fixed on the windows where the patrol car's taillights were still visible at the edge of the lot.
"Just left ten minutes ago. I'm almost home. Why?"
"I need a ride," Ann said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Please. I can't walk to my car alone. He's out there—the patrol car just drove by. I think he's waiting for me to leave."
"Oh, my God, Ann." Lena's tone shifted immediately from casual to concerned. "I'll turn around. Don't leave the building. Stay where there are other people."
"Thank you," Ann whispered, relief momentarily overwhelming her fear. "I'll wait by the kitchen entrance."
As she ended the call, Ann pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the host stand, trying to steady her breathing. She just needed to stay safe for ten more minutes. Then Lena would arrive and would ensure she wasn't alone in the darkened parking lot where Marcus might be waiting.
The patrol car circled back, moving more slowly this time as it passed the restaurant's front entrance. Ann shrank further behind the host stand, making herself as small as possible. Through the window, she could just make out the car number illuminated briefly by the streetlight: 37.
Her documentation folder would gain another entry tonight. Another timestamp. Another sighting. More evidence that would likely be dismissed as a coincidence, as paranoia, as a woman overreacting to a man's attention.
But Ann knew better. And as she huddled behind the host stand, waiting for Lena's rescue, Ann faced the terrifying reality that her evidence might never be enough until something happened that couldn't be ignored—something she might not survive to document.
Chapter 29
The boathouse creaked around us, timbers groaning with each gentle rock of the water beneath. We'd fled Sarah's perfect suburban prison before dawn, slipping out through the kitchen door while she and Tommy slept. Now, six hours later, the stench of mildew and fish guts permeated our new sanctuary—an abandoned structure jutting over the murky waters of Copper Bay, far enough from the main channels that casual boaters wouldn't notice us.
Matt was reading the news on his burner phone. His prosthetic leg was propped beside him, giving his residual limb a break after our rushed escape and subsequent hours of searching for a safe location.
Our temporary home was little more than a forgotten fisherman's shelter—rotting floorboards, a partially collapsed roof patched with blue tarp, and the skeletal remains of rod holders mounted to walls that listed dangerously toward the water. We'd pushed moldering crates and broken equipment against one wall to create a small living space, our few belongings arranged with the careful precision of people accustomed to quick departures. Matt played a video.
"Turn it up," I whispered, leaning forward on the overturned bait bucket that served as my seat. The news anchor's mouth moved silently for a moment before Matt found the volume control.
"—breaking news tonight in what police are now calling a pattern of violent murders across Tampa Bay." The anchor's voice emerged from the phone’s speaker, his professionally concerned expression giving way to a field reporter standing in front of crime scene tape, red and blue lights pulsing in the background. "We go live to Melissa Chen at the scene downtown."
The reporter's face filled the screen, her expression appropriately somber as wind whipped her hair. "Thank you, Jack. I'm standing just outside the police perimeter where the body of a woman in her forties was discovered less than three hours ago in what authorities are describing as a methodical, execution-style murder with disturbing similarities to the killing of Richard Collins last week."
My breath caught as the screen changed to show the cordoned-off area. Even with the camera keeping a respectful distance, I could make out the chalk outline on the pavement. A sheet-covered form lay at the center of the activity, partially visible as crime scene technicians worked methodically around it.
"Jesus," Matt breathed, his hand reaching instinctively for mine. "This happened right downtown."
The reporter continued, her voice taking on the hushed tone reserved for particularly gruesome details. "Sources close to the investigation tell us that, like Richard Collins, the victim was shot twice in the back with a .38 caliber weapon. However, what makes this case particularly disturbing is that a note was found pinned to the victim's clothing."
