I keptmy shoulder blades pressed against the wall, the position giving me an unobstructed view of both library exits. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in an irregular pattern that matched my frayed nerves. Seventeen people occupied the computer lab—two elderly men researching genealogy, a college student with headphones nodding to music as she typed, a woman with three restless children, and eleven others whose behaviors I'd categorized from least to most concerning. My eyes never stopped moving, cataloging new arrivals, tracking the bored security guard by the main entrance, watching for any face that lingered too long on Matt as his fingers flew across the keyboard in the corner terminal.
I shifted my weight slightly, easing the pressure on my injured side. The cut from our motel escape had mostly healed, but the tender flesh still protested when I stood too long in one position. The library's air conditioning raised goosebumps on my arms, a stark contrast to the humid Tampa heat outside. I adjusted my baseball cap lower, feeling exposed.
Matt's posture betrayed nothing of our desperate circumstances—shoulders relaxed, expression neutral as he navigated through digital barriers with practiced efficiency. Only I could see thetension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he concentrated. His body blocked most of the screen from casual observers, a precaution we'd discussed before entering. If anyone asked, we were researching local history for a family project. Our story wouldn't hold up to intense scrutiny, but it didn't need to. We only needed enough time to find what we came for and disappear again.
A teenage boy entered the computer lab, hood pulled low over his face. I tracked his movements, noting the nervous energy in his gait, the way his eyes darted around the room. Just a kid skipping school, not a threat. Still, I maintained my vigilance as he settled at a terminal across the room.
"Eva Rae," Matt's voice reached me as the barest whisper, audible only because I was attuned to it after years together. His right hand made a subtle gesture we'd established earlier—two fingers tapping against his thigh. He'd found something.
I casually moved to stand behind him, positioning myself so I could see the screen while maintaining sight lines to both exits and the security guard, who had now turned his attention to an elderly woman asking for help finding a book. My fingers brushed Matt's shoulder, a touch that might appear affectionate to observers but served as acknowledgment of his signal.
"Collins' email," Matt murmured, his voice barely audible. "I've bypassed the security questions. He wasn't particularly creative with his passwords."
The screen displayed Richard Collins' Gmail account, the inbox populated with the mundane correspondence of everyday life—work emails, shopping receipts, newsletters. Matt had already sorted them by sender, highlighting a recurring address that stood out from the corporate domains and services: [email protected].
"Twenty-three messages in the last month alone," Matt said, clicking on the oldest one.
The email opened, revealing a message that seemed innocuous at first glance:
Saw you at Parkside Café today. You looked so handsome in that blue shirt. I loved how you stirred your coffee three times before drinking it—always so precise. Maybe next time I'll find the courage to say hello instead of watching from across the room.
"Check the next one," I whispered, unease crawling up my spine at the intimate details observed without Collins' knowledge.
Matt clicked through to a message sent three days later:
You didn't come to the café today. I waited for two hours. Did something happen? Are you sick? I drove by your office but couldn't see you through the windows. Hope you're taking care of yourself. Remember that chicken soup you mentioned liking when you were talking to the barista last week? I could bring some by…
The progression continued through the emails, each revealing a deeper descent into delusion and obsession:
Why aren't you responding to my messages? I know you read them—I can see the read receipts. Are you playing hard to get? That's okay. I understand the game. I've always known we're meant to be together.
Saw you having lunch with that woman from your office today. She touched your arm twice and laughed at everything you said. She's not right for you. She can't understand you like I do. We have a connection that's special.
Three days and no response to my last seven messages. I'm worried about you. Or maybe you're deliberately ignoring me? After everything I've done? After how patient I've been? I deserve better than this silence.
The final message sent chills through me despite the library's warmth:
If I can't have you, no one will. You've forced my hand, Richard. I've been so patient, so understanding. I've given you every chance to recognize what we have. This is your last warning. Choose wisely.
This message had been sent two days before Collins' body appeared in my trunk.
"This is classic erotomaniac stalking progression," I whispered, my profiler's training automatically analyzing the pattern. "The delusional belief in a non-existent relationship, the perceived slights, the escalation from adoration to entitlement to threats." I pointed to specific phrases, my finger hovering over the screen without touching it. "See how they move from observation to interaction to possession? The language becomes increasingly proprietary—'after everything I've done,' 'you've forced my hand.'"
Matt nodded, continuing to navigate through Collins's inbox. "Collins never replied to any of these. Not once. But he saved them all in a separate folder labeled 'Evidence.'" He clicked into the folder, revealing dozens more messages, meticulously preserved.
"He knew he was being stalked," I said, my mind racing through the implications. "He was documenting it, probably planning to go to the police. We know he got a restraining order on someone. This must be that same person." I glanced toward the security guard, who had returned to his post by the entrance after helping the woman get to the librarian. "Can you access his sent mail? See if he reached out to anyone about this?"
Matt nodded, fingers dancing across the keyboard as he navigated to Collins's sent items. I maintained my vigilance, cataloging each person who entered or left the computer lab and assessing their body language for potential threats. The teenage boy had settled into what appeared to be an online game. The woman with children was now helping her youngest use a drawingprogram. Nothing triggered my internal alarms, but I remained alert.
"Look at this," Matt said, opening a message Collins had sent to himself as a draft. "It's a list of incidents—dates, times, and observations."
The document detailed multiple encounters with someone Collins believed was following him—a figure glimpsed outside his apartment, a car that frequently appeared in his office parking lot, and flowers delivered with no sender information. The final entry, dated three days before his body was found in my trunk, read simply:Called Sarah to discuss concerns. Meeting tomorrow night.
Sarah. Again, her name appeared, another thread connecting her to Collins. My jaw tightened as I processed this new information, the betrayal burning fresh. She did tell me that she and Collins flirted and knew each other from her store. But it sounds like they were more than that. Like they were actually friends? Or maybe lovers?
"Keep searching," I instructed Matt, my eyes scanning the room once more. "We need to know exactly what connection Sarah had to Collins, and why she never mentioned knowing him this well."
Matt nodded, already diving deeper into Collins' digital footprint as I resumed my position by the wall, more determined than ever to unravel the web closing around us.
