"He's been out for months," I murmured, the timeline arranging itself in my mind.
"The Collector," Matt said, using the nickname Reeves had earned. "You think he’s still keeping his newspaper clippings of crime scenes?"
"Definitely, and nursing a grudge." I leaned back, memories surfacing from the case that had put Reeves away. "I was the one who built the profile that led to his arrest. He threatened me during the trial, said I'd regret the day I crossed his path." I shook my head, fragments connecting.
The warehouse had grown darker as we worked, the shafts of light from the broken skylights fading as evening approached. Now only the laptop's glow illuminated our faces, casting harsh shadows that emphasized the exhaustion etched into our features. The vast space around us seemed to grow larger in the darkness, our small pool of light a fragile barrier against the encroaching night.
"You said you saw him at the motel?" Matt asked, his voice lower as if the darkness demanded quiet.
"Yes. Standing under a streetlamp, watching us escape." Theimage remained vivid in my mind—Reeves' broad shoulders, military stance, and that distinctive silver ring catching the light. "He wanted me to see him. It was deliberate."
"A message," Matt agreed, closing one file and opening another. "But what's he trying to tell you?"
I stared at the screen, at the crime scene photos of victims whose deaths mirrored the excessive violence of Reeves' signature style. "That he's coming for me. That he wants me to know it." I rubbed my eyes, fighting fatigue.
Matt's fingers stilled on the keyboard. The laptop's battery indicator blinked a warning—twenty percent remaining. Another resource with limited time.
"Let's focus on what we know for certain," he said, opening yet another file. "Reeves is out. He's in Tampa. He has a history with you. And he was watching us escape." His eyes met mine, the blue glow from the screen reflecting in them like cold fire.
I nodded, leaning closer to the screen as Matt pulled up more files. The darkness pressed against our backs as we worked, two fugitives hunched over digital breadcrumbs, searching for the path that would lead us back to truth—and freedom.
Complete darkness had claimed the warehouse by the time Matt closed the laptop, the battery finally surrendering after hours of use. I lit the small emergency candle from our supplies, its flame casting our shadows in giant, distorted versions against the walls. The sudden absence of the screen's glow left an afterimage on my retinas—crime scene photos, prison records, and newspaper headlines, all bleeding together in a grotesque collage. I rubbed my eyes, fighting the fatigue that threatened to cloud my judgment when I needed it most. That was when Matt cleared his throat in the particular way he did before delivering news he knew I wouldn't like.
"I've arranged another meeting with Juan Ramirez," he said, his voice steady but cautious. "Since we couldn’t make it today. Tomorrow morning, seven a.m."
I looked at him. “Are we sure that’s safe?”
“It’s our only option right now. We have to at least try.”
Chapter 18
THEN:
The evening shift at Granger's felt alien to Ann, the familiar restaurant transformed by the dimmer lighting and the different clientele that occupied the tables. She had traded shifts with Miriam, partly to avoid the 1:15 ritual that had become the center of her days, partly to see if breaking her pattern would break his. Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded napkins at the service station, the white paper squares refusing to form clean triangles under her unsteady hands. Beside her, Lena hummed tunelessly, her movements quick and practiced, dark hair escaping from her messy bun as she worked.
"You're folding those like they personally offended you," Lena remarked, nudging Ann's shoulder with her own. "That's your fifth crooked one in a row."
Ann set down the misshapen napkin, flexing her fingers. "Sorry. My mind's elsewhere."
"Clearly." Lena's gaze was piercing, assessing. "You've beenjumpy all night. Almost dropped that tray of drinks when the kitchen door swung open too fast."
The overhead lights caught in Lena's silver hoop earrings as she turned, creating brief flashes that drew Ann's eyes. Beyond Lena's shoulder, the entrance to the restaurant remained firmly closed, no one entering or leaving. Still, Ann couldn't help checking it every few minutes, as if Marcus might materialize despite the hour, despite her schedule change.
"Lena," Ann began, her voice lower than necessary in the half-empty restaurant, "have you ever felt like someone was… watching you? Following you?"
Lena's hands stilled on the napkin she was folding. "Like a creepy customer? We get those sometimes. That businessman who always sits in your section and touches your arm when he orders?"
"No, not like that." Ann shook her head, resuming her folding with renewed determination, though her fingers still betrayed her with their trembling. "Like someone… someone with power. Someone who could know your schedule, your routes, where you live."
"You're being cryptic as hell, girl." Lena set down her napkin and turned fully toward Ann, eyebrows raised in question.
Ann glanced around, ensuring no customers were within earshot. Tom was in his office. Chef Cho was focused on the abbreviated evening menu. The nearest occupied table was a good fifteen feet away, its occupants engrossed in their own conversation.
"That police officer," Ann whispered, the words feeling dangerous even as they left her mouth. "Marcus Hale. The one who's been coming in for lunch."
"Officer Dreamy?" Lena's expression brightened. "Miriam mentioned him. Said he always sits in your section, tips like a dream."
"He comes in at exactly 1:15. Not 1:14, not 1:16. Exactly 1:15." Ann's hands had stopped pretending to fold, the napkin clutched tightly between her fingers. "Every single day. And he just watches me. For exactly forty-five minutes."
