A CRY FOR HELP, page 17
The screen showed a blurred image of what appeared to be a piece of paper that was hard to read. But I could make out what looked like my name at the top.
"While police have not released the contents of the note, our sources confirm it was a letter from former FBI agent Eva Rae Thomas, the prime suspect in both murders."
My face appeared on screen—my official FBI photograph from years ago, looking confident and professional in my Bureau jacket. The image dissolved into a more recent shot from my book jacket, then a grainy surveillance photo that must have been taken in the past week. The collection of images created a visual progression, transforming me from a respected law enforcement officer to a fugitive.
"This is—" I began, but the words died in my throat as the broadcast continued.
"Police are now openly referring to these killings as the work of a serial offender," the reporter said, her expression grave. "Tampa PD has upgraded their advisory, warning that Thomas should be considered armed and extremely dangerous."
Matt cursed under his breath, his fingers tightening around mine as the anchor reappeared, looking directly into the camera. "If you're just joining us, we have breaking news on what police are now calling the 'Profiler Murders.' A second victim has been found, and authorities believe former FBI profiler Eva Rae Thomas is responsible for both killings."
The screen split to show my photograph alongside the crime scene. The juxtaposition made my stomach turn—my face and the shrouded body, linked forever in viewers' minds. The banner across the bottom read: "MANHUNT INTENSIFIES: FORMER FBI PROFILER SUSPECTED IN SERIAL KILLINGS."
"I’m being framed for another murder," I whispered, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. The analytical part of my brain—the part trained through decades of FBI work—continued functioning despite the horror washing over me. "She's escalating, creating a pattern that fits the profile of a serial killer."
Matt’s phone rang. He checked the display before answering. "I recognize the number. It’s Juan," he acknowledged, his voice low as he put the call on speaker.
"Are you watching the news?" Juan Ramirez's voice crackled through the small speaker, tension evident even through the poor connection.
"We are," Matt confirmed, his eyes never leaving my face.
"It's worse than what they're reporting," Juan said. "The victim was shot twice from behind, just like Collins, but this time there was obvious staging of the body. And the note—" he paused, the silence heavy with implication.
"They're calling you a serial killer now," Juan continued, his voice tense. "Every cop in three counties is looking for you. The FBI has been officially called in. I've never seen a manhunt of this magnitude."
“Well, technically, you have to have killed three people to be called that, but who’s counting?” I said.
I opened my own phone and went through the news channels. Each showed variations of the same coverage—my face splashed across the screen with warnings about my dangerous nature, experts speculating about my "psychological break," talking heads discussing my FBI career as if searching for signs of instability that had been there all along.
"They've created a task force," Juan added. "The director held a press conference an hour ago. Your former colleagues are leading the manhunt, Eva Rae."
I closed my eyes briefly, imagining the faces of agents I'd trained, worked alongside, and trusted with my life—now hunting me like an animal. When I opened them again, the television showed split-screen coverage: the crime scene on one side, and on the other, a photograph of me with my daughter at her high school graduation three years ago. The image had been cropped to isolate me, my smile now recontextualized as something sinister.
The water lapped gently against the pilings beneath us, the boathouse shifting with each wave. Like my former life, it was a structure on the verge of collapse, held together by nothing more than stubborn determination and increasingly fragile connections to solid ground.
Chapter 30
Matt ended the call with Juan, the phone's screen going dark in his hand like a snuffed candle. I stared at my own face on the news—a face now synonymous with murder in the minds of millions. Outside, the wind picked up, sending ripples across the bay water and causing our fragile shelter to protest with creaks and groans. Matt pushed himself to his feet, reattaching his prosthetic with quick, practiced movements before pacing the narrow confines of our hideout, his footsteps heavy on the weathered planks.
"We need to get as far away from Tampa as possible," he said, his voice tight with controlled urgency. "North Carolina, maybe even further. Somewhere they won't be looking." He gestured toward the door. "Juan has contacts who can get us new identities. We disappear, regroup, figure out our next move from somewhere safe."
I remained seated, watching him move back and forth across the uneven floorboards. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back—a caged tiger measuring the limits of his confinement. The news anchor continued speaking, but I reached over and silenced him with a press of the button. The sudden quiet amplified the sounds of our refuge—water slapping against the pilings, wind whistling through gaps in the walls, the distant call of a night bird somewhere along the shore.
"We can't leave," I said finally, my voice calm despite the storm of emotions beneath the surface. "Not yet."
Matt stopped pacing, turning to face me with disbelief etched across his features. "Did you miss the part where every law enforcement officer in Florida is hunting for you? Where they've just upgraded you from suspect to serial killer?" He ran his hand through his hair— his tell when frustration threatened to overwhelm him.
"Rule One of The Profiler's Code," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "Trust the evidence, not the narrative." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "The narrative says I'm killing people execution-style and leaving notes. The evidence—if we could access it—would tell a different story."
"Eva—" he began, but I continued, my voice gathering strength as I spoke.
"Sarah Winters is behind this," I said, certainty hardening my tone. "She killed Collins. She killed this woman. She's systematically framing me, and if we run now, she wins. I'll never clear my name."
Matt's shoulders sagged slightly, his expression shifting from frustration to concern. "I know you think it's Sarah. And after what we saw in her house last night, I believe she's involved. But staying here is suicide."
I stood. "Think about it, Matt. Sarah knew Collins." I tapped the printed emails. "Someone was stalking him—someone whose writing exhibits classic erotomanic fixation patterns. Then he ends up dead the night after meeting with Sarah."
“Didn’t he get a restraining order against the stalker? Why would he meet with Sarah if she was the stalker?” he asked. “If he had a restraining order against her?”
“Maybe he got a restraining order against the wrong person?” I said. “Maybe because Sarah was using burner phones, he thought it was someone else? Maybe he thought he could trust Sarah, but he couldn’t.”
“And since he refused her advances, she murdered him. Yeah, that makes sense,” Matt said.
“In the mind of a very sick individual, it would.”
The boathouse creaked around us as I walked to the opposite wall, where we'd taped up photographs and notes—our own investigation board, pieced together from scraps of evidence we'd managed to gather.
"Remember when we first went on the run? When I'd just been accused of Collins' murder?" I turned to face Matt, watching realization dawn on his face. "Sarah said she wanted to help clear my name."
Matt nodded slowly. "She seemed so genuine."
"Too genuine. Too prepared." I traced my finger along a timeline we'd created. "She had burner phones in her drawer. A wall covered with information about me. She knew my coffee preferences." I turned to face him fully. "She wasn't helping us, Matt. She was tracking us."
"Even if you're right—"
"I am right," I interrupted, certainty burning through me like a flame. "She orchestrated this entire frame. She's been planning it for quite some time, probably."
"Fine," Matt conceded, stepping closer. "Let's say she's behind everything. That's even more reason to get distance. We can gather evidence remotely, work through Juan, build our case from somewhere she can't reach us."
"No," I shook my head firmly. "We need proximity. We need to catch her making a mistake."
Outside, rain began to fall, light drops becoming a steady patter against the weathered roof. A tarp covering part of the ceiling billowed slightly with each gust of wind, water collecting in its center before spilling onto the floor in the corner. The storm was picking up, mirroring the tension in our small space.
"This is your life we're talking about," Matt said, his voice rising slightly. "Your freedom. Your future. Our children’s future. We can't gamble that on the hope that a meticulous killer who's planned this for years will suddenly make a convenient mistake."
"She will," I countered, moving to stand directly in front of him. "Her obsession with details makes her vulnerable. She's not just framing me; she's playing a game with me."
The wind howled suddenly, sending a spray of water through a gap in the wall. Matt flinched as droplets hit his face, but I continued, my voice low and intense.
"Sarah sees this as some twisted courtship. Collins rejected her, and she eliminated him. Now she's eliminating what she sees as obstacles between you and her. She wants me discredited, imprisoned, or dead so she can create space for her fantasy life with you."
Matt's expression darkened. "The comment about Tommy needing a father figure."
"Exactly." I nodded. "This isn't just about framing me. It's about claiming you. In her mind, she's creating a vacancy in your life that she can fill." I reached out, my fingers brushing his arm. "If we run, she'll follow. And she'll keep killing to maintain the narrative she's creating."
The boathouse gave another protesting groan as the thunderstorm intensified outside. Water had begun to seep through cracks in the floorboards, forming small puddles. Matt looked down at my hand on his arm, then back to my face.
"So, what's your plan?" he asked, his resistance softening slightly. "We can't exactly walk into police headquarters with theories about Sarah's obsession."
"We need concrete evidence that links her to the murders," I said, stepping back toward our makeshift investigation board. "Proof she was stalking Collins. What’s her connection to the second victim? Anything that disrupts the narrative she's—"
The distinct sound of footsteps on the wooden dock outside cut through my words—heavy, deliberate steps approaching the boathouse door. We both froze. Matt extinguished the lamp with one quick movement, plunging us into darkness.
The footsteps stopped directly outside our door. A pause, pregnant with threat. Then, the unmistakable sound of the rusted latch being tested from the outside.
Chapter 31
THEN:
Ann paused outside Granger's front entrance, her fingertips still burning with the memory of the small electronic device she'd discovered beneath her car the night before. A tracking device. This was how he knew where she was at all times.
She hadn't driven to work today—couldn't bear to sit in the vehicle that had been violated, transformed from transportation into surveillance. Instead, she'd asked Miriam to pick her up, had spent the fifteen-minute ride obsessively checking the rearview mirror for patrol car 37. The restaurant's familiar façade should have offered comfort, the routine of her job a respite from the growing nightmare of Marcus Hale's surveillance. Instead, she found herself scanning the parking lot for the patrol car with the telltale dent in its bumper, before forcing herself to push through the door.
The restaurant's interior enveloped her in familiar scents—fresh coffee, bacon from the breakfast rush, Chef Cho's signature soup simmering for the lunch crowd. Ann inhaled deeply, momentarily steadied by the ordinary. Her fingers moved automatically to tie her apron strings as she stepped past the hostess stand, nodding mechanically at the morning hostess who was gathering menus for the shift change.
Then she saw them.
Her body registered their presence before her conscious mind processed it—muscles seizing, lungs forgetting their rhythm, blood draining from her face with such speed that dark spots danced at the edges of her vision. Marcus Hale and Officer Ramirez sat at table eight, directly in the center of her assigned section. They'd positioned themselves with perfect tactical advantage: Marcus facing the main entrance, Ramirez with a clear view of both the kitchen doors and the employee entrance. Marcus's coffee cup was already half empty, suggesting they'd arrived well before her shift began and had deliberately established their presence in her territory.
Ann's order pad slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor. The sound drew Marcus's attention, his head turning with the fluid precision of a predator sensing movement. Their eyes locked across the restaurant, and the small, knowing smile that curved his lips sent ice spreading through her veins. He nodded once, a gesture that might have appeared friendly to anyone else but carried unmistakable meaning to Ann: I'm watching you. I'll always be watching you.
She broke eye contact with physical effort, stooping to retrieve her pad with trembling hands. Keeping her head down, she scanned the restaurant for Lena, desperate for an ally in the suddenly hostile space. The morning shift servers were gathering their things, preparing to clock out as the lunch crew filtered in. Ann spotted Lena near the service station, loading sugar packets into small ceramic containers, her dark hair escaping its practical bun as she worked.
Ann crossed to her with quick, jerky steps, her back crawling with the weight of Marcus's gaze tracking her movement.
"Lena," she whispered, her voice cracking. She gripped Lena's forearm with fingers that dug too deeply and would leave marks. "Please switch sections with me. I can't—I just can't serve him today."
Lena looked up, startled by the intensity of Ann's grip. "What? Who—" Her gaze followed Ann's quick, fearful glance toward table eight, understanding blooming in her expression as she registered Marcus and Ramirez. "Oh. Him."
"Please," Ann repeated, her voice barely audible now, desperation evident in every syllable. "Section four is empty right now. You can have all my tips from the other tables. I just—I can't go over there. Not after I found a tracker under my car."
Lena studied Ann's face, taking in her pallor, the slight tremor visible in her jaw, the way her eyes kept darting nervously toward Marcus's table before skittering away, like a wounded animal afraid to look directly at a predator.
"A tracking device?" Lena said slowly, keeping her voice low. "You think he—"
"I know he did," Ann interrupted, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Who else would it be? He's a cop. He has access to that kind of equipment. And now he's here, with another officer as witness, trying to make it look like a casual lunch, but it's not, Lena. It's not."
Lena hesitated, glancing toward the officers' table. Ramirez was laughing at something Marcus had said, her expression relaxed and natural. Marcus's posture appeared casual, one arm draped over the back of his chair, but his eyes remained fixed on Ann's back with an intensity that belied his seemingly relaxed demeanor.
"Okay," Lena said finally, squeezing Ann's arm. "I'll take section two. You take four."
Relief washed through Ann with such force that her knees nearly buckled. "Thank you," she breathed, gratitude making her voice tremble. "Thank you."
Throughout her shift, Ann maintained a careful orbit around the restaurant floor, always positioning herself with at least one wall at her back, always keeping Marcus in her peripheral vision while pretending to focus on her tables. She moved with deliberate efficiency between the coffee station and her section, taking the long route that kept her farthest from table eight. Her shoulders remained hunched forward, an unconscious protective posture, her spine rigid with the effort of appearing normal while her instincts screamed danger.
Lena approached Marcus's table with professional detachment, notepad in hand, maintaining the polite but impersonal manner she used with difficult customers. From across the restaurant, Ann watched as Marcus's expression shifted from surprise to something harder, more calculating, as he registered the change in servers. He said something to Lena, his head tilting slightly in Ann's direction, and Lena responded with a tight smile and a shrug that Ann recognized as deliberately casual.
As the lunch rush intensified around her, Ann found herself tracking Marcus's movements with hyperaware precision. She noted how his eyes followed her path between tables, his head turning with measured restraint that wouldn't be obvious to anyone not watching for it. Whenever she emerged from the kitchen or approached the service station, his conversation with Ramirez would pause momentarily, both heads turning slightly in her direction before resuming their discussion.
At one point, while refilling water glasses for an elderly couple in her section, Ann glanced up to find Marcus and Ramirez with their heads bent close together, Marcus speaking in low tones that didn't carry across the restaurant. When Tom approached their table to check on their meal, their conversation stopped abruptly. Marcus leaned back in his chair with an easy smile that transformed his face into something almost charming. The moment Tom moved away, Marcus's expression returned to its previous intensity, eyes seeking Ann across the room as if drawn by magnetic force.
A cold weight settled in Ann's stomach as she realized the restaurant—once her sanctuary, the place where her routine had provided structure and safety—had been invaded. Marcus had colonized her workspace just as he'd colonized her sense of security, her freedom of movement, her peace of mind. Even here, surrounded by coworkers and customers, with Lena acting as a buffer, she wasn't safe from his watching eyes.
