A CRY FOR HELP, page 21
"None yet." I secured the bandage with medical tape; my movements were practiced and efficient. "But Sarah's not the type to give up easily."
The boathouse attack played through my mind in vivid detail—the precision of the assault, the cold calculation in Sarah's eyes as she'd scanned the water for our bodies. She'd been willing to kill us both to protect her elaborate fiction, to maintain the frame she'd constructed around me. And she'd nearly succeeded.
"I know." I cut him off gently. “For now, we need food and rest."
As if on cue, a volunteer announced that the evening meal was being served. People began queuing up near the long tables where steam rose from industrial-sized trays of what smelled like beef stew. My stomach clenched at the thought of food, reminding me that we hadn't eaten since before the boathouse attack nearly twelve hours ago.
"I'll go," I said, patting Matt's arm. "You stay put."
He nodded, conserving energy. We both knew his wound, while not life-threatening, had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. The pain lines around his mouth had deepened in the past hour, and his normally alert eyes had developed a glassy quality that concerned me.
I joined the food line, keeping my head down and my posture stooped to maintain our cover. The volunteers worked efficiently, ladling stew into plastic bowls and handing out slices of bread with practiced movements. One of them—a teenage girl with braces—smiled at me as she passed me a bowl. I mumbled thanks without meeting her eyes, playing my role while continuing to scan the room.
That's when I saw him.
A small figure moved among the volunteers, carrying a tray of bread slices with careful concentration. Dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that struck me as instantly familiar—the same cowlick that Sarah had absentmindedly brushed back when she'd been playing the role of concerned friend. The boy turned slightly, revealing a profile that made my heart stutter in my chest.
Tommy Winters.
Sarah's nine-year-old son was here, in this shelter, helping serve food to the homeless. The same child I'd seen in Sarah's immaculate home, playing with toy cars on a perfect lawn. The same child who had watched his mother with wary eyes, flinching slightly when she'd corrected him too sharply.
I froze, my bowl of stew halfway to my chest, as Tommy moved along the serving line. His movements were careful and deliberate—a child trying very hard to do everything correctly. I recognized the behavior of someone accustomed to harsh consequences for small mistakes. It was the same hyperawareness I'd observed in other children from controlling homes, the constant self-monitoring that became second nature when living with unpredictable authority.
My mind raced through possibilities. Was this simply community service, a mother involving her child in charitable work? Or was Sarah here too, somewhere in this crowded room, watching and waiting? Had she somehow tracked us to this shelter, using her son as innocent camouflage for her hunt?
Tommy handed a slice of bread to an elderly woman, his smile shy but genuine. There was nothing calculated in that expression, nothing that suggested he was part of any trap. Just a child doing what his mother had instructed, unaware of his role in a larger, darker game.
I moved back toward Matt, food in hand but appetite gone, my eyes never leaving Tommy's small form as he continued his volunteer work. The coincidence was too great. Sarah Winters was here, or close by—of that I was certain. And that meant we were no longer as safe as I'd thought.
Chapter 38
I returned to Matt with two bowls of stew and information far more valuable than food. "Tommy Winters is here," I whispered, settling beside him against the wall. "Sarah's son."
Matt's eyes widened slightly. I placed my hand over his, steadying him. "This isn't a coincidence. Sarah must be here too." We both understood the implications: our temporary sanctuary had just become another trap in Sarah's elaborate game.
"You sure it's him?" Matt asked, his voice low as he took the bowl from me.
"Positive."
I picked up my spoon but didn't eat, my attention fixed on Tommy as he moved between the food tables. "He's helping serve, which means Sarah must be volunteering too. I need to see if I can talk to him."
Matt's expression tightened with concern. "That's risky, Eva."
"So is walking into another of Sarah's traps blind." I set my untouched bowl aside. "Children notice things adults don't think they reveal. If Sarah's been planning all this for years, Tommy might have seen something useful."
For fifteen minutes, I watched Tommy work while scanning the room for Sarah. Eventually, I spotted her supervising a group of volunteers organizing donated clothing at the far end of the room. Her back was to us, her hair pulled into a casual ponytail—the picture of selfless community service. My stomach turned at the performance, knowing what lurked beneath the carefully constructed façade.
When Sarah finally headed toward the kitchen area, disappearing through swinging doors, I saw my opportunity. I squeezed Matt's shoulder and stood, moving casually through the crowded room toward the corner where Tommy now stood folding napkins. I approached from an angle that wouldn't be immediately visible from the kitchen, adopting the slightly stooped posture of our homeless disguise.
"Need some help with those?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle as I stopped beside him.
Tommy looked up, his eyes widening slightly as recognition flickered across his face. "You're the lady from TV," he said, his voice hushed but not frightened. "The one they said hurt people."
I crouched down to his eye level, maintaining a non-threatening distance. "My name is Eva Rae," I said, deliberately omitting my last name. "I came and visited you at your house, remember? And no, I didn't hurt anyone. Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes about things like that."
Tommy studied my face with the unfiltered intensity only children can manage. "Mom says you're dangerous," he said, then added with surprising candor, "but you don't look dangerous. You look tired."
A smile tugged at my lips despite the gravity of our situation. "I am tired," I admitted. "It's hard when people think you did something you didn't do."
He nodded with unexpected understanding. "That happens to me sometimes. Mom gets mad about things I didn't do."
The opening was perfect—a natural segue that any trained interviewer would recognize. During my years with the FBI, I'd interviewed dozens of children, learning to follow their lead rather than directing them too forcefully. Now I employed those same techniques, keeping my body language open and my voice conversational.
"That must be hard," I said, picking up a napkin and beginning to fold it, mirroring his activity to establish a connection. "What kinds of things does your mom get mad about?"
Tommy shrugged, his small fingers working deftly at folding. "When I go places I'm not supposed to. Or when I talk to people she doesn't like." He glanced toward the kitchen doors, then added in a lower voice, "Or when I ask about the special room."
I kept my expression neutral despite the alarm bells ringing internally. "Special room?"
He nodded, continuing to fold napkins as we spoke. "In our basement. Mom has a lock on it. I'm not allowed to go in there, ever." His eyes darted toward the kitchen again. "She gets really mad if I even ask about it."
"Have you ever seen inside this room?" I asked, careful to maintain my casual tone while my heart raced.
Tommy shook his head. "Once I peeked when she left the door open a little. I saw lots of pictures on the wall and a desk with a computer on it. Mom was really angry when she caught me." His voice dropped further. "She didn't let me have dinner that night and made me stay in my room all weekend."
The punishment revealed more about Sarah's controlling nature—the disproportionate response to a child's natural curiosity. I handed him another folded napkin, our fingers briefly touching in a gesture meant to reassure.
"Does your mom have friends who visit?" I asked, thinking of Collins and his connection to Sarah.
Tommy's face brightened slightly. "Mr. Collins used to come over. He was nice. He brought me books about space and answered my questions. Mom acted different when he was there—more smiley." His expression fell. "But he stopped coming. Mom said he did something bad and couldn't visit anymore."
"When did he stop visiting?"
"A while ago. Before…" He hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Before Mom started acting weird."
"Weird how?" I prompted gently.
Tommy looked down at the napkins, his fingers stilling. "She talks to herself a lot now. When she thinks I'm asleep, I can hear her in her room, having whole conversations with nobody there." He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "And sometimes she gets really happy for no reason, like something good happened but she won't tell me what. Then other times she gets super mad and breaks things."
The clinical part of my brain cataloged these behaviors—mood swings, possible delusions or hallucinations, episodes of rage—classic signs of deteriorating mental stability. But the part of me that was a mother recognized something else in Tommy's description: fear. This child was afraid in his own home.
He glanced nervously toward the kitchen doors again. "She's been watching the news a lot. She has a special notebook where she writes things down when they talk about you on TV."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with my still-damp clothes. Sarah was documenting the manhunt, tracking the progression of her frame in real-time. The level of obsession suggested she was becoming more unstable, more unpredictable.
"Tommy," I said carefully, "that special room in your basement—do you know if your mom keeps other things there? Maybe things that belonged to Mr. Collins?"
His eyes widened slightly. "I don't know, but…" He leaned closer, his voice barely audible. "Last week I saw her carrying a box down there. It had a gun inside. I wasn't supposed to see, but I was getting water, and she didn't know I was in the kitchen."
My blood ran cold—a gun—possibly the murder weapon used on Collins and the woman they found downtown. Before I could ask another question, Tommy's gaze darted past my shoulder, fear flashing across his face.
"She's coming back," he whispered urgently. "You should go. She gets really mad when—"
I nodded, straightening up and moving away with casual deliberation, as if I'd simply been passing by. The information Tommy had provided confirmed my worst suspicions about Sarah while adding new, disturbing dimensions to the picture. Whatever was in that basement room might be the key to unraveling her entire frame-up—and potentially saving both our lives.
Chapter 39
I turned away from Tommy just as the kitchen doors swung open. Sarah emerged carrying a fresh tray of bread, her volunteer's smile firmly in place. I kept my head down, moving laterally through the crowd rather than directly back toward Matt. But something—perhaps the movement itself, or some sixth sense born from her obsession—caught Sarah's attention. Her eyes swept the room in a practiced scan that betrayed her casual demeanor, settling on me with laser focus. For a fraction of a second, her smile faltered, the mask slipping to reveal the predator beneath before snapping back into place so quickly that anyone else would have missed it. But I'd seen it. And worse, she'd seen me.
Our eyes locked across the crowded room—hers blue and calculating, mine steady despite the danger. It was a moment of mutual recognition, a silent acknowledgment that the game had entered a new phase. The pleasant mask she wore for the benefit of those around her remained intact, but her eyes told a different story. They held the cold precision I'd witnessed on the dock after the boathouse attack—the unfiltered gaze of a hunter assessing prey.
I maintained my casual pace as I wove through the tables, keeping other shelter occupants between us as much as possible. Sarah placed her tray on the serving table with deliberate care, her movements unhurried but purposeful. She was too smart to create a scene here, surrounded by witnesses. But the calculated glance she directed toward the exit told me everything—she was already planning her next move.
When I reached Matt, I slid down beside him without looking back at Sarah. "We've been made," I murmured, picking up my abandoned bowl of stew and pretending to eat. "Sarah spotted me."
Matt's posture shifted subtly, his body angling toward the nearest exit while maintaining our cover of two homeless people sharing a meal. "How bad?"
"Full recognition." I took a spoonful of the now-cold stew, forcing myself to swallow despite my churning stomach. "But she won't do anything here. Too many witnesses."
I told him everything Tommy had revealed—the locked basement room, Sarah's erratic behavior, the gun she'd hidden, Collins' visits that had mysteriously stopped. With each detail, Matt's expression grew grimmer.
"That basement is our best lead," he said, keeping his voice low. "Whatever evidence connects her to the murders is probably there."
"Along with whatever she's planning next," I agreed. "Tommy mentioned she keeps a notebook tracking the news coverage about me. She's documenting her own frame-up."
"Narcissists often keep trophies," Matt observed, the detective in him analyzing despite our desperate situation. "She'd want to preserve her 'accomplishment.'"
Across the room, Sarah had moved to Tommy's side, placing a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that appeared affectionate to casual observers. But I noted the tension in her fingers, the slight curl of possession in the way she held him. Tommy's body language shifted immediately—shoulders stiffening, expression becoming more controlled. The natural animation I'd seen during our conversation disappeared, replaced by the careful neutrality of a child walking on eggshells.
"Look at how she's holding him," I whispered to Matt. "That's not protection, it's possession."
Matt nodded, his eyes tracking the pair as Sarah leaned down to whisper something in Tommy's ear. The boy nodded mechanically, his earlier warmth extinguished. "She's using him," Matt said, his voice hardening. "Bringing him here wasn't a coincidence."
"No," I agreed, the realization crystallizing with sickening clarity. "She knew we'd need shelter after the boathouse. This church outreach center is the only one within walking distance of the bay that offers overnight accommodation without ID checks." I watched as Sarah guided Tommy toward the donated clothing area, her arm wrapped possessively around his shoulders. "She predicted our movements, then positioned herself and Tommy here as bait."
"But why Tommy? Why expose her son to this?"
"Because she knows I won't risk harming a child," I said, remembering Rule Seven of The Profiler's Code: Truth before badge. The principle that had guided my FBI career—that finding justice should supersede institutional loyalty or personal safety—extended naturally to the protection of innocents. Sarah had studied me thoroughly enough to know that I would hesitate to take any action that might endanger Tommy. "She's using him as a shield."
Sarah was now helping Tommy into his jacket, her movements efficient but controlling—adjusting his collar, tugging the zipper higher than necessary, her hands constantly touching, directing. She glanced our way again and this time made no effort to hide her recognition. A small, knowing smile curved her lips before she returned her attention to Tommy.
"She's leaving," Matt observed. "Taking Tommy with her."
"And expecting us to follow," I finished. The trap was elegantly simple—Sarah knew we needed to access that basement room, and she was using Tommy's safety to control how and when we'd make the attempt.
Matt shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged side. "So, what's our play? We can't let her dictate the terms of engagement, but we need what's in that basement."
I watched Sarah guide Tommy toward the exit, her posture relaxed but her eyes constantly scanning—a predator aware that her prey was watching.
"She'll be watching for us," I said.
We gathered our meager belongings as Sarah and Tommy disappeared through the shelter's main doors. The cold calculation in her parting glance had contained something else—a trace of anticipation, almost excitement. This wasn't just a strategy for her anymore. The game had become personal, feeding whatever twisted obsession drove her.
As we prepared to leave through a side exit, I thought of Tommy—the careful way he'd spoken about his mother, the fear that had flashed across his face when she'd returned. He was both pawn and prize in Sarah's elaborate game, and that made him the most vulnerable player on the board.
"We need to be careful," I said quietly, adjusting my ragged coat around my shoulders. "It's not just our lives at stake anymore."
Matt nodded, his expression grim as he followed my gaze toward the door where Tommy and Sarah had exited. "No matter what evidence we find, we need to make sure he's protected when this all comes crashing down."
The weight of that responsibility settled across my shoulders as we slipped out into the gathering darkness. Sarah Winters had framed me for murder, destroyed my reputation, and threatened everything I held dear. But her most unforgivable crime might be what she was doing to her own son—using him as both weapon and hostage in a war of her own creation.
As we disappeared into the shadows between streetlights, I made a silent promise to Tommy that I would end this—not just for my sake, but for his. Truth before badge. Some principles transcended personal survival.
Chapter 40
THEN:
Ann's fingertips brushed against her phone in her pocket as she pushed through Granger's side entrance, scanning the parking lot one final time before letting the heavy door swing shut behind her. Her shoulders dropped imperceptibly when she found Tom waiting by the time clock, his usual morning greeting replaced by a grim nod toward his office door. Her stomach twisted—nothing good ever came from private conversations in that cramped back room with its perpetually flickering fluorescent light and walls too thin for genuine privacy.
