A CRY FOR HELP, page 3
"Hello?" A young voice answered, bright and slightly breathless.
Something in my chest cracked open. "Angel," I whispered, my daughter's name emerging like a prayer.
"Mom?" The word exploded with joy and relief. "Mom! Is that really you?"
"Hey, sweetie," I said, my voice softening instantly. Tears gathered in my eyes, hot and insistent. I hadn't cried during the entire nightmare of the past three days—not when I'd seen my face plastered across news channels labeled as armed and dangerous, not even when I'd realized someone had constructed an elaborate frame designed to destroy my life. But the sound of my daughter's voice undid me completely.
"I miss you so much," Angel continued, words tumbling out in a rush. "When are you coming home? Grandma made lasagna yesterday, but it wasn't as good as yours, and I got an A on my vocabulary test and—"
"Angel," I interrupted gently, "is Christine there?"
"Yeah, she's right here with the baby. Hold on."
I heard shuffling and muffled voices, someone saying, "Give me that," with gentle insistence. Then my older daughter's voice came through the line, controlled but tinged with worry.
"Mom? Where are you? Are you okay?"
I closed my eyes, picturing Christine's face—so much like my own at her age, but with a steadiness I'd never possessed. Being a single mom at only eighteen had given her a gravity I hadn't acquired until decades later, if ever.
"I'm okay," I reassured her, the lie coming easily for her sake. "How's it going with the baby? How’s my little Ellie?"
A brief hesitation, then she followed my lead into safer conversational territory. "She slept through the night for the first time," Christine said, her voice warming. "And she's so much fun now. She's starting to recognize faces, I think. She definitely knows when Grandma's holding her versus me."
I smiled despite everything, imagining my granddaughter's tiny face. Another piece of my heart that I couldn't be with right now. "That's wonderful," I managed, though the words felt hollow against the weight of my absence.
Christine's voice dropped lower, more serious. "How are you doing, Mom? I saw your face on the news again. What's happening? I've been so worried and tried to get ahold of you. But your phone goes directly to voicemail."
"I had to get rid of it," I explained, picturing the phone I'd destroyed and abandoned in pieces across three different dumpsters in the Tampa Bay Area. "It wasn't safe."
"Mom." Her voice tightened with fear poorly disguised as frustration. "They're saying you killed a man. They showed your picture and everything. What's happening?"
I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, fighting for composure. How could I explain that someone had constructed an elaborate frame against me? That every piece of evidence pointing to my guilt had been meticulously fabricated? That I was running not because I was guilty, but because I knew I couldn't trust the system to uncover the truth?
"I didn't do what they're saying," I said finally, each word deliberate and clear. "I'm working to fix things and come home soon. I promise." My voice cracked on the last word. "I miss you so much."
"Are you still with Matt?" she asked, ever practical, ever concerned for my welfare even when I should be protecting hers.
"Yes."
"Good." A single word carrying layers of meaning—relief that I wasn't alone, approval of the person watching my back, acknowledgment that at least one thing in this nightmare made sense.
In the background, I heard my mother's voice calling something I couldn't make out, then Christine responding away from the phone. When she returned, urgency had entered her tone. "Mom, there are two men who keep driving by the house. Police, I think, but they never stop. They just… watch."
My stomach tightened. Of course, they would be monitoring my family. It was standard procedure for fugitive cases. I would have ordered the same surveillance myself when I was with the Bureau.
"Don't approach them," I instructed, slipping back into FBI mode. "Don't give them any reason to do more than observe. I'll contact you again when I can, but it might not be for a few days."
"Mom—"
"I love you," I said quickly. "Tell Alex, Elijah, Angel, and Grandma I love them too. And kiss that baby for me. And don’t tell Olivia what’s going on if she calls from college. It will only distract her, and she has midterms coming up. I don’t want her to worry, okay?"
“She already knows, Mom,” Christine said with a deep sigh. “You think she doesn’t watch TV?”
“I hoped she wouldn’t. Okay, then tell her I’m okay, and everything will be fine.”
“I don’t think she’ll buy that, but I’ll try.”
“Gotta go.”
I ended the call before my voice could betray me further, before I could make promises I wasn't certain I could keep. For several minutes, I remained seated on the edge of the bed, head bowed, the silent phone clutched in my hand like some talisman that could transport me back to my normal life.
The shower had stopped running, but Matt hadn't emerged. Giving me privacy, I realized, even in this cramped space where privacy was a luxury we could no longer afford.
The door hinges creaked as Matt pushed it open wider. He stood in the doorway, hair damp against his neck, saying nothing as he placed a hand on my shoulder. The simple weight of human connection nearly undid me again. I covered his hand with mine and squeezed once before straightening my spine.
"They're watching the house," I said, focusing on facts rather than feelings. "But everyone's safe for now."
Matt nodded, understanding everything I wasn't saying. We'd both been law enforcement long enough to know the playbook. Watch the family. Monitor communications. Wait for the fugitive to make contact. It was what I would have done.
Through the small bathroom window, a movement caught my eye. The elderly motel owner walked past our room, his gait slow but purposeful, his head turned toward our curtained window. Something about the deliberate nature of his path raised my internal alarms.
"That's the third time he's walked by in the last hour," Matt said, following my gaze.
I rose from the bed’s edge, slipping the phone into my pocket. Later, I'd disassemble it and dispose of the pieces separately, as we'd done with the others. For now, I needed to focus on the immediate threat.
"We need to be ready to move quickly if we have to," I said, wiping away the last traces of tears with the back of my hand. The vulnerability I'd allowed myself during the call vanished, replaced by the hypervigilance that had kept us alive these past three days.
I moved into the main room and began methodically repacking our few belongings. Matt mirrored my movements with practiced efficiency, our partnership requiring few words. We both knew we had to be ready, in case we needed to leave fast.
Outside, the motel owner passed by again, slower this time, his shadow briefly visible through the gap in the curtains.
"He made a call after we checked in," Matt said quietly, zipping his bag closed. "I couldn't hear what he said, but he kept looking out the window toward us, while he talked."
I nodded, processing this new information. "Could be nothing. Could be calling the cops. Either way, we must be ready."
The emotional warmth from hearing my family's voices still lingered somewhere deep in my chest, but I tucked it away, a luxury I couldn't afford right now. Later, when this was over—if this were ever over—I would allow myself to feel the full weight of what I stood to lose.
We had hours before our meeting with Juan Ramirez, hours we'd planned to use for much-needed rest. But rest, like privacy and safety, had become another casualty of this nightmare.
Chapter 7
THEN:
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Granger's restaurant, casting long rectangles of light across the polished floors. Ann Porter moved between tables with the fluid precision of someone who had walked these paths a thousand times before. She balanced three plates along her left arm, her right hand steadying them with practiced ease, her attention divided between the weight of porcelain and the mental catalogue of who had ordered what. Table seven needed ketchup. The couple by the window would want their check soon. The man in the corner booth had already eaten half his fries but hadn't touched his sandwich. Ann noted it all and filed it away, a constant stream of small observations that kept her shift running smoothly.
"Here you are," she said, setting down plates before a family of four. "Chicken strips for you, burger medium-rare, Caesar salad, and the fish special." Her smile appeared and disappeared efficiently—present long enough to be polite, brief enough to move on.
The restaurant hummed around her with its familiar symphony—knives scraping plates, ice clinking in glasses, the sizzle and hiss from the kitchen, bursts of laughter from the bar. Ann navigated through it all, her body on autopilot while her mind categorized and prioritized each task. Check on table two. Refill waters at nine. Drop off the check at five.
Tom Granger appeared from the back office, his eyes scanning the dining room with the quick assessment of a man who'd spent twenty-five years in the business. He nodded at Ann as she passed, a silent acknowledgment that things were running as they should.
"Need more ranch dressing at table twelve," she murmured as she passed him, and he gave a curt nod, already moving toward the kitchen to relay the message.
Ann swept past the wait station, grabbing a fresh ketchup bottle and napkins in one fluid motion. Her steps faltered slightly when the front door opened, admitting a rush of cooler air and a figure whose presence seemed to fill more space than his physical body should allow.
The policeman stood in the entrance, the afternoon light catching on his badge. He was in full uniform—dark blue that looked almost black until the light hit it just right, utility belt heavy with equipment, the unmistakable bulge of a holstered gun at his hip. Ann wasn't the only one who noticed; a brief hush rippled through the nearest tables, that momentary collective intake of breath that accompanied authority entering a room.
The hostess approached him with a menu, but he shook his head, gesturing toward Ann's section with a confidence that suggested he'd been here before, though Ann couldn't recall seeing him. Her fingers tightened around the ketchup bottle as the hostess led him to table eight—one of her four-tops, now occupied by just him, his broad shoulders making the space seem smaller.
Ann took her time delivering the ketchup to table seven, her mind racing ahead to the interaction that awaited her. She checked her reflection in the polished surface of the coffee machine—hair still tucked neatly behind one ear, lipstick faded but presentable. She wasn't sure why she checked.
"Good afternoon," she said, approaching his table with a professional smile fixed in place. "Welcome to Granger's."
"Officer Marcus Hale," he said, though she hadn't asked. His eyes—a deep brown that caught the light in fragments—met hers directly. "I've heard good things about this place."
Ann nodded, aware of a subtle shift in her breathing pattern. Shallower now. Faster. "First time visiting us?"
"First time in uniform," he said with a slight smile that creased the corners of his eyes. "Usually I'm off-duty when I make it here."
That explained why she didn't recognize him. Ann pulled out her notepad and uncapped her pen. Her palm felt damp against the plastic. "Can I get you started with something to drink?"
"Just water for now." He didn't look at the menu. "What do you recommend?"
The question was standard, but something in his tone made it feel more personal. Ann found herself unusually conscious of her posture, the way she held her pen, the sensation of being watched with an intensity that exceeded the normal server-customer dynamic.
"The smash burger is good," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Chef Cho makes them with a blend of three meats. Or the special today is blackened salmon with roasted vegetables."
Marcus nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. "I'll trust your judgment. The burger, medium."
Ann wrote it down, though the order was simple enough to remember. Her handwriting looked different somehow—tighter, more careful strokes. She was aware of his gun again, the holster's leather worn with use, its weight pulling slightly at his belt. The authority it represented. The danger.
"I'll get that in for you," she said, turning to leave.
"Ann," he called after her, and she froze, not remembering having told him her name. Her gaze flicked to her name tag—of course. "Could I get some coffee while I wait?"
She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment. "Cream and sugar?"
"Black is fine."
In the kitchen, the familiar chaos welcomed her—Chef Cho barking orders at the line cooks, steam rising from pots, the rhythmic chop of knives against cutting boards. Ann punched in the order, her fingers tapping the screen with unusual force.
"You okay?" Miriam asked, sidling up next to her with a tray of dirty dishes. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," Ann said, pouring coffee with a hand that wasn't quite steady. "Just… there's a cop at table eight."
Miriam glanced through the kitchen window. "Oh, he's cute though."
Ann didn't respond, but heat crept up her neck as she arranged the coffee cup on a saucer. When she returned to the dining room, she could feel Marcus watching her, tracking her movements as she delivered the coffee. His eyes seemed to follow her as she checked on her other tables, took orders, and delivered food. Every time she glanced in his direction, he was looking at her with that same steady, evaluating gaze.
The weight of his attention made her hyperaware of her body—the swing of her hips as she walked, the movement of her hands as she jotted down orders, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating. Actions that had been automatic for years suddenly felt deliberate, performed.
When his food arrived, Ann set the plate before him with care, conscious of the proximity of their hands, the smell of his cologne—subtle but present, something woodsy and clean that contrasted with the cooking odors that typically surrounded her.
"Anything else I can get you?" she asked, stepping back slightly, needing the distance.
"This looks great," he said, then added with unexpected directness, "How long have you worked here, Ann?"
The question startled her—personal in a way customers rarely were. "About three years," she answered, unsure why she felt compelled to be honest rather than deflecting.
He nodded as if confirming something. "You know everyone's patterns. I've been watching you work. Very efficient."
The observation felt invasive yet flattering. Ann's chest tightened with a confusion of emotions—pride, discomfort, and something else she couldn't name. "Enjoy your meal," she said, retreating to check on her other tables.
Throughout his meal, she remained conscious of his presence, like a persistent itch between her shoulder blades. When she brought his check, he handed her a credit card without looking at the total.
"Everything was excellent," he said, his voice lower than before. "Exactly what I needed today."
Ann processed his payment and returned with the receipt. He added a tip that was nearly half the cost of the meal itself, signed with a confident flourish.
"I'll be seeing you again," he said as he stood. It wasn't phrased as a question.
Ann watched him leave, the strange flutter in her stomach persisting long after the door closed behind him. She picked up his empty plate and noticed he'd eaten every bite, leaving it nearly clean. Something about the thoroughness unsettled her. As she cleared the table, she found herself picturing his face, replaying their interactions, and wondering exactly when he would return.
Chapter 8
Three days earlier, I'd been driving down Morrison Avenue with the windows cracked, letting in the warm Tampa air that carried hints of exhaust and flowering jasmine. The late afternoon sun glinted off my rearview mirror, momentarily blinding me just before the flash of red and blue lights appeared behind me. I checked my speed—five over the limit, nothing that usually warranted a stop—and pulled to the curb with the practiced calm of someone who'd spent two decades on the other side of law enforcement. Just a routine traffic stop. The last normal moment before my entire life imploded.
I watched in my side mirror as the officer approached, noting his unhurried gait and the casual way his hand rested near his holster—relaxed, not anticipating trouble—a routine stop for him, too. The heat rising from the asphalt created wavering distortions around his figure as he drew closer. I rolled down my window, the electric motor whirring in protest.
"License and registration, ma'am." His voice carried the flat affect of someone who'd repeated the same phrase thousands of times. Young guy, maybe early thirties, with a neatly trimmed mustache and the beginning of sweat stains darkening his uniform collar.
"Officer." I nodded, reaching slowly for my purse. Twenty years with the FBI had taught me how to interact with law enforcement—deliberate movements, respectful tone, nothing that could be misinterpreted as a threat. "May I ask why I was pulled over?"
"Taillight's out." He leaned slightly to glance at the back of my car. "Driver's side."
I frowned. I'd checked all my lights before we left a week earlier. It was actually Matt’s old car. We had decided to take this instead of my minivan so my daughter Christine could use that back home for her and the baby.
I kept my confusion to myself as I handed over my license and the registration I'd retrieved from the glove compartment. His eyes flickered with recognition as he read my name.
"FBI?" he asked, looking at me with new interest.
"Twenty years," I confirmed. "Though I'm more of a consultant these days."
“You’re the one who wrote that book on the profiler’s code,” he said.
“That would be me. That’s actually why I’m in town. I live over in Cocoa Beach, but was invited to a book signing event here in Tampa this week. My boyfriend and I are leaving town today. Going home to the children.”
