"My instincts are telling me this is methodical," I said, resuming my pacing. "Someone chose Collins specifically. Someone put him in my trunk knowing I'd be pulled over." I stopped, a new thought forming. "That taillight—I checked all the lights last week. Someone tampered with our car to ensure I'd be stopped."
"That's a lot of variables to control," Matt observed, leaning forward.
I sank onto the edge of the bed beside Matt, suddenlyexhausted. Three days of running, three days of barely sleeping, the constant hypervigilance wearing me down to raw nerves and bone-deep fatigue.
The TV was still on, but muted. The news wheel returned to my story. The headline scrolled beneath: "Manhunt Intensifies for Former FBI Profiler Eva Rae Thomas." I turned on the volume just to hear the reporter then detailing my "violent escape" from the traffic stop, the "premeditated murder" of Richard Collins. Every word twisted reality into a darkly distorted version of events. Beneath it, another headline announced the reward for information leading to my capture had doubled.
"They're making me sound like a dangerous criminal," I whispered, my stomach turning. "Like I've completely lost control."
Matt took the remote from my trembling hands, then muted the TV again. "Which means whoever is framing you knows what they’re doing."
"But why?" I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to think through the exhaustion. "Why me? Why Collins? There has to be a connection I'm not seeing."
"We need more information on Collins," Matt said, his detective's mind already plotting investigation angles. "Bank records, phone records, recent contacts. Something that connects him to whoever is setting you up."
I nodded, my thoughts aligning with his. "We need resources we don't have—access to databases and contacts who can run searches without triggering alerts." I sighed, letting my hands drop to my lap. "We need help. We need allies."
“That’s why we’re meeting Juan tomorrow,” he said. “He can help us get all the info on Collins.”
“We need more than one,” I said. “In case Juan can’t be trusted. I don’t have a good feeling about him. He’s shady.”
The neon sign outside flashed, painting the room briefly in crimson before plunging it back into shadow. The rhythmic pulse reminded me of emergency lights, of the moment my life had shattered three days ago.
"Sarah Winters," I said suddenly, sitting straighter.
Matt's eyebrows rose slightly. "The bookstore owner? How would she help us?"
"I don’t know, but she’s the one who invited me here and arranged the event. She’s a big fan of mine. Maybe she’ll believe me when I say I’m innocent? I can’t think of anyone else who would."
Matt considered this, his expression cautious. "Reaching out to anyone right now is risky. You don't know who you can trust."
"I don't need to trust her with everything. Just enough to get information about Collins." I reached for my jacket—a nondescript hoodie borrowed from Matt that hung loose on my frame. "She gave me her personal number. Said I could come by the store any time if I wanted to browse after hours."
Matt watched me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he measured the risk against our dwindling options. "And you think she won't immediately call the police when a fugitive shows up at her door?"
I hesitated, remembering Sarah's warm smile, her enthusiastic questions about my profiling work, her obvious admiration. "She's fascinated by criminal psychology. She was talking about how the system fails people, how false convictions happen. If anyone might listen before judging, it's her."
Matt reached for his prosthetic, strapping it on with practiced movements. "Then we go together. If she seems suspicious, we leave immediately."
I nodded, already mentally mapping the least conspicuous route to downtown Tampa. As I gathered my purse and burner phone, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror—a stranger staring back at me with haunted eyes and desperate determination. The woman in the mirror looked guilty, looked hunted.
Looked exactly like the fugitive they were claiming I was.
Chapter 10
Bookmark Haven stooddark and silent on the corner of the street, its windows reflecting the lamps in dull yellow squares against the night. Matt and I watched from across the street, sheltered in the shadow of a closed café, studying the bookstore for any sign of surveillance. The "CLOSED" sign hung in the front door, but a soft light glowed from the back office window. Sarah was working late, just as I'd hoped. I pulled the hood of my borrowed jacket lower over my face, painfully aware that my distinctive red hair made me far too recognizable despite my attempts at disguise.
"Police cruiser passed twice in the five minutes we've been watching," Matt murmured, his voice low. "Could be routine patrol, or they could be monitoring potential contacts."
I nodded, tension coiling between my shoulder blades. "We'll use the back entrance. Quick and quiet."
We crossed the street separately—Matt first, then me, thirty seconds later—moving casually as if we belonged there, as if we weren't fugitives in a city-wide manhunt. The alley behind the bookstore was narrow, lined with dumpsters from neighboring businesses, filling the humid air with the sweet-sour smell of food waste. A single security light cast long shadows.
"This is a risk," Matt whispered as I grabbed the handle to see if she had left the door unlocked. "We're bringing her into this without warning. Putting her in danger."
The handle turned with a soft click. "We're out of options," I replied, though guilt twisted in my stomach. He was right—we were potentially making Sarah an accessory, whether she wanted that role or not.
The door opened into a small storage area stacked with cardboard boxes labeled "New Releases" and "Special Orders." The familiar scent of paper and binding glue enveloped us—a sharp contrast to the alley's stench. I closed the door silently behind us, my eyes adjusting to the dimmer light filtering in from the main shop.
