A CRY FOR HELP, page 26
The town gradually thinned into suburbs, then into scattered rural properties, then into the empty highway that would carry her away from everything familiar. Only when the "Now Leaving" sign disappeared behind her did Ann allow herself to exhale fully, her shoulders dropping from their position near her ears, her death grip on the steering wheel easing slightly.
Days along with hundreds of miles passed beneath her tires, the landscape changing from forest to farmland to swamps. Ann drove mechanically, her mind cycling through memories, justifications, explanations—constructing and reconstructing narratives that allowed her to remain the victim rather than the perpetrator in her own story.
They could say what they wanted. She knew the real truth.
On the third day, a gas station appeared on the horizon, its sign flickering even in the morning light—some electrical issue causing the fluorescent bulbs to pulse arrhythmically. Ann's fuel gauge hovered just above empty, forcing her to pull into the cracked concrete lot. The place looked deserted except for a single attendant visible through the convenience store's streaked glass.
Ann filled her tank methodically, the smell of gasoline sharp in her nostrils as she watched the numbers climb on the pump display. Her phone vibrated in her pocket—had been vibrating periodically throughout her drive, though she'd ignored it until now. With the pump running, she had no excuse to continue her avoidance.
Six new messages. Lena, Miriam, Chef Cho, Tom Granger. Their names lined up on her screen like an indictment.
Lena: "Ann, please call me. I'm worried about you. We can figure this out."
Ann's thumb moved automatically, deleting the message without fully letting the words sink in. She didn't need Lena's false concern. Didn't need the pity of someone who had abandoned her when she needed support most.
Miriam: "I'm so sorry about everything. The restaurant isn't the same without you. Please call when you're ready to talk."
Delete.
Chef Cho: "Porter. Heard what happened. Know a good lawyer if you need one. Text me."
Ann paused, momentarily surprised by the offer. Then suspicion bloomed—was this another trap? Another attempt to locate her, to bring her back, to force her into "treatment" she didn't need? Her thumb moved again. Delete.
The final message was from Tom Granger, sent less than an hour ago: "It's not too late to get help. Everyone makes mistakes. What matters is how we handle them afterward. The offer still stands—Granger's will cover the first month at the facility. Please consider it, Ann. For your own sake."
Her finger hovered over the delete button, but something stopped her. A tiny crack appeared in the fortress of her conviction—a moment of clarity that whispered: What if they're right? What if I really did imagine all of it?
The gas pump clicked off, jarring her from the uncomfortable thought. Ann returned the nozzle to its holder and screwed her gas cap back into place. As she slid back into the driver's seat, her gaze fell on a business card, which had fallen from the passenger seat onto the floor.
New Horizons Psychiatric Treatment Center.
The place Officer Ramirez had suggested. Ann picked up the card, turning it over in her fingers, feeling its weight and solidity.
For one brief, terrifying moment, the possibility opened before her—that everything she believed might be wrong, that her mind had constructed an elaborate fiction, that she needed the kind of help this card represented.
Then the moment passed, the crack in her conviction sealing shut as quickly as it had appeared.
"They're all just gaslighting me," Ann muttered, tossing her phone onto the passenger seat beside the business card. "I'm the only one who knows the truth."
She started the engine and pulled back onto the empty highway, accelerating quickly as if she could outrun the doubts that had momentarily surfaced. The road stretched before her, empty and promising—a clean slate, a new start, a place where no one knew her name or her history.
Ann refused to acknowledge the small voice whispering that no matter how far she drove, the real problem remained seated right beside her, inescapable as her own shadow.
As she stopped at a roadside diner to eat, the neon lights flickered as she slid into a vinyl booth. She'd barely glanced at the menu when movement on the mounted TV caught her eye—a redheaded woman with a confident posture speaking into a forest of microphones.
"Who's that?" she asked, nodding toward the screen as the waitress refilled ketchup bottles nearby.
The waitress followed her gaze and smiled. "Eva Rae Thomas. FBI hotshot. Just cracked that serial case nobody could solve down in Tampa." She nodded toward the screen. "Got a book out now about how she gets inside killers' heads. Half the women in Florida want to be her, the other half want to meet her."
"Eva Rae Thomas," she whispered, rolling each syllable across her tongue like a hard candy. Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “I think I want to be you, too.”
The broadcast switched to a studio anchor, her name appearing in bold white letters across the bottom of the screen.
"Sarah Winters," she murmured, fingertip tracing the name in the condensation of her water glass. "That’s perfect."
Chapter 47
The motel room walls seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, closing in tighter with every passing minute. I couldn't stop staring at Tommy's frightened face on the burner phone screen, the bruise on his cheek a violent splash against his pale skin. Sarah had crossed a line I hadn't anticipated—using her own child as bait. The calculated cruelty of it churned my stomach, even as the analytical part of my brain admired the tactical precision. She knew exactly which button to push to force my hand.
"We need a different approach," I said, resuming my pacing across the worn carpet. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back—the limited geography of our temporary prison.
Matt sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as he adjusted his position to accommodate his injured ribs. The makeshift bandage we'd applied was holding, but the strain showed in the tightness around his eyes.
"Eva Rae, you know this is a trap," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "She's manipulating you with the one thing she knows you can't ignore." He gestured toward the television, muted but still broadcasting my face next to the word "MANHUNT" in angry red letters. "Your face is plastered across every screen in Florida. You step outside, someone will recognize you."
I stopped pacing long enough to give him a hard look. "Rule Seven of The Profiler's Code, Matt. 'Truth before badge.' The ultimate loyalty is to finding the truth, even when it conflicts with official positions." I tapped the phone screen where Tommy's frightened eyes stared back at me. "And the truth is there's an innocent child caught in the middle of this."
"That's not how that rule was meant to be applied," Matt countered, shifting again with a barely suppressed groan. "It's about not letting departmental politics interfere with investigations, not charging headfirst into an obvious trap."
"Then how about the unwritten rule? The one that says we protect innocents, regardless of personal cost." I resumed pacing, the thin carpet offering minimal cushion against the concrete subfloor. "Tommy didn't ask for any of this. He's a victim of his mother's delusion as much as we are."
Matt pushed himself to his feet, moving to block my path. His face was pale with pain but determined. "And how exactly do you plan to protect him if you're dead or in custody? Sarah has orchestrated three murders, framed you perfectly for each one, and nearly killed us at the boathouse. She's not suddenly going to make a convenient mistake.
"She already has," I insisted, sidestepping him to continue my circuit of the room. "Using Tommy this way shows she's desperate. Her plan is unraveling."
"Or it's exactly what she planned all along—forcing you into the open by exploiting your protective instincts." Matt followed me with his eyes as I moved. "That's what makes it such an effective trap. She studied you enough to know you'd never ignore a child in danger, even at the cost of your own safety."
I stopped at the grimy window, peering through a crack in the curtains at the parking lot beyond. Afternoon sun glinted off windshields, creating miniature beacons in the asphalt expanse. Somewhere out there, a nine-year-old boy was living in terror of his own mother, witnessing her descent into murderous obsession.
"What would you have me do?" I asked, turning back to Matt. "Ignore him? Let her do God knows what while we hide in this room?"
"I want you to think like the FBI profiler you are, not like—" He cut himself off, but I heard the unspoken words anyway.
"Not like a mother?" I finished, my voice sharper than intended. "Is that what you were going to say?"
Matt's expression softened. "Not like someone personally invested. You taught me that emotional distance is crucial to clear thinking in cases like this."
"Rule Three," I acknowledged. "'Maintain emotional distance.' A profiler who becomes emotionally invested loses objectivity and risks missing crucial details."
"Exactly."
"But I've already broken that rule, Matt. The moment Sarah made this about us—about you and me—objectivity went out the window." I gestured at the bandage visible beneath his shirt. "We're both bleeding from this case. Literally."
The burner phone rang before he could respond, its harsh electronic tone shattering our standoff. Juan Ramirez's number flashed on the screen. Matt and I exchanged a look—Juan was our only remaining lifeline to the outside world.
I answered, putting the call on speaker. "Go ahead, Juan."
"She's got company." Juan's voice came through with uncharacteristic urgency, background noise suggesting he was calling from inside a vehicle. "I've been watching the house since dawn. The place is now packed with police. I think they’re waiting for you, expecting you to come there. She probably told them you would."
My eyes met Matt's across the room. "What about Tommy?"
"I don’t know. He could be in there with her.”
Matt moved closer to the phone. "She could be hurting him right in front of the police?"
"Stay on her," I instructed. "But maintain distance. She's proven more resourceful than we anticipated."
"Copy that." Juan's voice dropped lower. "Be careful, Eva Rae. Whatever's happening with her, it's accelerating." The line went dead.
I looked at Matt. “What do we do? We have to get inside that house and save Tommy before it’s too late.”
“I agree, but how? The entire Tampa Bay police department and the FBI are waiting outside, ready to grab you as soon as you get there. Me too, for that matter, for helping a fugitive. We’ll never make it past them. All their focus is on you.”
“Then we change their focus,” I said. “I have an idea.”
Part V
Chapter 48
I entered Tampa Mall through the east entrance, moving with the measured confidence of a woman who belonged there. My right hand rested casually inside my jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the cold metal of the gun I'd secured from Juan's emergency supplies. Every face I passed was a potential witness, every security camera a deliberate part of my plan. The weight of what I was about to do settled across my shoulders like a familiar burden—not unlike the weight I'd carried during my most dangerous FBI operations. Only this time, I wasn't operating with the authority of a badge. I was creating chaos by design.
The plan had come together in the predawn hours, after Juan had met with us in the park.
"We need to draw the police away," I'd told Matt and Juan. "Create a situation that forces them to leave the house."
Matt had understood immediately. "A distraction. Something that would pull police resources away from her neighborhood."
"Something that plays into her narrative about me," I'd added, the idea crystallizing with terrible clarity.
With a gun in my pocket that Juan had provided for me, I scanned my surroundings with the automatic threat assessment I'd developed through years of field work. Two security guards near the central corridor, speaking into shoulder-mounted radios. Four visible security cameras covering the main walkways. Emergency exits at forty-foot intervals, each marked with illuminated signs. The morning crowd was modest but growing—mostly elderly mall-walkers getting exercise before the stores opened, young mothers with strollers, and retail employees arriving for their shifts.
Perfect. Enough witnesses to spread the word, not enough to create unmanageable chaos.
I made my way toward the center where the fountain was, passing storefronts still dark and shuttered. A cleaning crew mopped the gleaming floor, their yellow caution signs creating islands in the walkway that I navigated around. An elderly couple nodded as they passed, the woman's smile flickering briefly in my direction. I wondered if she recognized me from the news or simply saw another middle-aged woman on a shopping spree.
The fountain opened before me—a circular space in the center of it all. I glanced toward the food court. Workers arranged chairs around tables, filled napkin dispensers, and wiped counters with practiced movements. The ceiling stretched high above, skylights allowing morning sun to illuminate the area better than the mall's fluorescent lighting. I noted the positions of each security camera, the service corridors marked "Staff Only," and the wide entrance to the main shopping concourse.
I selected my position carefully—central enough to be visible from multiple angles, close enough to the service corridor for a quick exit, far enough from innocent bystanders to minimize risk. I had taken the magazine out for now, so there would be no bullet, and no one would be hurt, except for the scare. The chaos would be controlled, contained. No one would be hurt if everything went according to plan.
My heart maintained its steady rhythm as I settled by the fountain, removing my sunglasses and tucking them into my pocket. I wanted the cameras to capture my face clearly.
Two security guards passed nearby, their conversation about weekend plans carrying across the quiet space. Neither gave me a second glance—just another woman waiting, meeting someone, or maybe waiting for the coffee shop to open. I let them pass, counting seconds in my head.
The burner phone in my pocket vibrated once—Juan's signal that they were in position outside Sarah's house. I gave myself thirty more seconds, using the time to scan the food court once more. A young family had settled two tables away, their toddler banging a plastic toy against the table surface. The mother looked exhausted, with dark circles beneath her eyes, suggesting sleepless nights with her child. I waited until she bent to retrieve something from a diaper bag, ensuring her attention was diverted.
I stood smoothly, withdrawing the gun from my pocket in a single fluid movement that my body remembered from thousands of practice drills. The weapon felt impossibly heavy in my hand, its presence instantly transforming me from an anonymous shopper into a public threat. Before doubt could intrude, I raised my arm and fired three bullet-less shots into the concrete ceiling above.
The sound cracked through the open space like thunder, echoing off hard surfaces and silencing all other noise for one suspended moment.
Then came the screams.
The frozen tableau shattered into frantic movement. Parents grabbed children, elderly couples clutched each other, and food service workers ducked behind counters. Security guards spun toward the sound, hands moving to their weapons as they shouted commands that were lost in the growing panic.
"Gun! She has a gun!"
"Everyone down!"
"This way—emergency exit!"
I moved with the surging crowd, allowing the human current to carry me toward the main corridor. The gun, now hidden again in my pocket, had served its purpose. My face had been captured on every security camera in the food court. Within minutes, those images would be transmitted to law enforcement across Tampa Bay.
"That's her!" a woman's voice cut through the chaos behind me. "That's the FBI killer from the news!"
I didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the recognition. Instead, I peeled away from the main flow of fleeing shoppers, slipping through a service door marked "Staff Only".
I jogged down the hallway. In the distance, I could hear alarm systems activating, the piercing electronic wail adding to the confusion.
By now, Matt and Juan would be entering Sarah's house, using the window I'd created with my desperate diversion. All available police would be coming here in a matter of seconds.
I pushed through a final door and emerged into morning sunlight at the rear of the mall. A service area stretched before me—dumpsters, delivery trucks, the ordinary infrastructure of retail commerce. No people visible yet, though I could hear sirens approaching from multiple directions.
The burner phone vibrated in my pocket again—two short pulses, our code for "mission proceeding." Matt and Juan were inside Sarah's house. The distraction had worked.
I slipped between two delivery trucks and made my way toward the drainage ditch that would lead me to our predetermined rendezvous point.
The true cost of what I'd just done would come later—a new charge added to the growing list of alleged crimes, another nail in the coffin of my reputation. But if it gave Matt and Juan the time they needed to save Tommy, it would be worth it.
As I disappeared into the trees beyond the mall's property line, leaving the wail of sirens and shouts of confusion behind, I allowed myself one moment of grim satisfaction. For the first time since this nightmare began, Sarah Winters wasn't dictating the terms of engagement.
We were.
Chapter 49
I reached our rendezvous point—an abandoned gas station—ten minutes after leaving the mall, my lungs burning. The small building's boarded windows and graffiti-covered walls made it invisible to casual observers, perfect for our needs. Juan had left the rusty back door unlocked as planned. I slipped inside, checking my burner phone every few seconds for updates from Matt and Juan.
