"We need to dig deeper into Collins' life," I said, my mind already mapping the investigation that needed to happen. "Financial records, phone logs, social media—anything that might reveal who he was in contact with in the weeks before his death."
"Already working on it," Juan replied, closing the laptop. The blue glow disappeared, plunging our faces back into the garage's dim lighting. "But there's something else you should keep in mind."
I waited, tension coiling between my shoulder blades.
"Whoever is behind this," Juan said, his voice dropping lower, "I don’t think they’re finished. They could be constructing a narrative of escalation—making you appear more desperate, more dangerous with each passing day."
The implication was clear: more bodies would follow. More deaths would be laid at my feet and more lives destroyed in the effort to destroy mine.
Chapter 21
I closedmy eyes for a moment, processing the implications of what Juan had just shared. When I opened them again, the garage seemed colder somehow, the dripping water in the distance marking time with metronomic persistence. Juan had delivered facts with clinical precision, each one another piece in the puzzle of my framing. But I sensed he was holding something back—a final revelation he was reluctant to share. His fingers tapped against the closed laptop, a subtle tell that betrayed his internal debate.
"We should move," Matt said, his voice low as he checked his watch. "We've been stationary too long."
Juan nodded, sliding the laptop into a sleek leather case. "I'll continue investigating Collins' background. Financial records sometimes reveal connections that personal histories obscure." He secured the case with practiced efficiency, his movements betraying no wasted energy.
"How do we contact you?" I asked, already calculating our next moves, the safe houses we might use, the identities we might temporarily assume. “Without anyone being able to find out that you’re helping us?”
"You don't," Juan replied, straightening his immaculate suit jacket. "I'll find you when I have something concrete."
I didn't like that arrangement—it placed too much control in his hands, left us waiting rather than acting. But I recognized the logic behind it. Every communication was a risk, every contact point a potential trap. Juan was relying on his resources within the force and couldn’t risk losing them.
Juan turned toward his car, then paused, his hand resting on the door handle. The hesitation was slight but noticeable—a disruption in his otherwise fluid movements. Something in his posture shifted, a subtle squaring of the shoulders that suggested he'd made a decision.
"There's something else you should know," he said, not turning to face us. "I was at the police station yesterday, following up on a different case."
The change in his voice—a slight flattening of tone—triggered my internal alarms. Whatever came next wouldn't be good news.
"I saw your friend there," he continued. "The bookstore owner. Sarah Winters."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Sarah, who had spoken with such conviction about helping me clear my name. Sarah, whose eyes had darted nervously to her phone more than once during our conversation.
"What was she doing there?" I kept my voice neutral despite the sudden thundering of my pulse.
Juan finally turned, his expression carefully composed. "Giving a statement. About your 'erratic behavior' when you came to her store at night and asked her for help. About how Collins was a huge fan of yours and was at the bookstore for the signing." His eyes met mine, watching for my reaction. “I have a source there who gave me the details."
My face had hardened into a mask, but beneath it, my mind raced through every interaction with Sarah, searching for signs I'd missed: The too-convenient offer of help, the nervous glances at her phone, the way she'd directed our conversation toward specific topics while avoiding others.
Did she believe I was guilty? Was that why she went to the police? Was she reporting back to them about me?
Why?
Maybe she was just covering herself, making sure she wouldn’t be in trouble for helping me. Maybe she was just pretending to believe me, because she was afraid I might harm her? I guess I couldn’t blame her, but it still hurt.
"Did she see you?" Matt asked, practical as always.
Juan shook his head. "I made sure she didn't."
The betrayal settled in my stomach like ice. I'd trusted Sarah—not completely, not blindly, but enough to accept her help when we were desperate. Enough to reveal our presence to her when staying hidden was our only advantage.
"She's an informant," I said, the words barely audible.
Matt's hand came to rest on my shoulder, a warm weight that anchored me as my mind spun through implications. “We have to be more careful who we trust.”
The garage suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. If Sarah had betrayed us, she might have shared information about our whereabouts, maybe that’s how they found us at the motel the next morning. Of course it was. That only made sense. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows harboring new threats.
"We should go," I said, moving toward our exit route—the northwest stairwell we'd identified upon arrival. "This location is not safe."
