Tom took the phone, squinting at the small screen. "It's a patrol car, Ann. They patrol. That's literally their job."
"At two in the morning? Parked in the same spot for over an hour, watching my building?" Ann swiped to the next photo, then the next. "And what about the traffic stop two days ago? I didn't roll through that stop sign, Tom. I was counting in my head, makingsure I came to a complete stop specifically so he wouldn't have an excuse to pull me over."
Tom handed back the phone, his expression softening into something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Ann, are you sure you're not reading too much into this? He seems like a devoted regular to me."
Ann's voice cracked. "Who showed up at my apartment complex at two in the morning?"
"Listen," Tom placed a hand on her shoulder that was clearly meant to be comforting, but felt like a weight pinning her in place. "I've known Marcus for years. He's a good officer with a solid reputation. If he pulled you over, I'm sure he had a reason."
"That's exactly the problem," Ann whispered, the fight suddenly draining from her body. "Everyone thinks he's just a good cop doing his job. No one can see what's happening."
Tom sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Look, finish your shift, go home, and get some rest. Things will seem clearer after a good night's sleep."
Ann nodded mechanically, recognizing the dismissal in his tone. The assumption that she was overreacting, imagining connections that weren't there, creating problems where none existed.
As her shift wound down, Ann moved through her closing duties with mechanical efficiency, her mind racing with the information she'd discovered during her research. Every few minutes, her eyes darted to the windows, scanning the parking lot for white and blue patrol cars.
Just as she finished, movement outside the front window caught her eye. A patrol car cruised slowly past the restaurant, its headlights illuminating the darkening parking lot with sweeping beams. Though she couldn't make out the driver's face or the car number from this distance, Ann's body responded with immediate, visceral recognition—her heart rate doubling, her palms growing damp with cold sweat, and her lungs constricting until breathing became a conscious effort.
She ducked behind the host stand, pressing her back against the wooden structure as if it could shield her from those searchinglights. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and called Lena.
"Hey, what's up?" Lena's voice came through, casual and warm.
"Are you still at the restaurant?" Ann whispered, her eyes fixed on the windows where the patrol car's taillights were still visible at the edge of the lot.
"Just left ten minutes ago. I'm almost home. Why?"
"I need a ride," Ann said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Please. I can't walk to my car alone. He's out there—the patrol car just drove by. I think he's waiting for me to leave."
"Oh, my God, Ann." Lena's tone shifted immediately from casual to concerned. "I'll turn around. Don't leave the building. Stay where there are other people."
"Thank you," Ann whispered, relief momentarily overwhelming her fear. "I'll wait by the kitchen entrance."
As she ended the call, Ann pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the host stand, trying to steady her breathing. She just needed to stay safe for ten more minutes. Then Lena would arrive and would ensure she wasn't alone in the darkened parking lot where Marcus might be waiting.
The patrol car circled back, moving more slowly this time as it passed the restaurant's front entrance. Ann shrank further behind the host stand, making herself as small as possible. Through the window, she could just make out the car number illuminated briefly by the streetlight: 37.
Her documentation folder would gain another entry tonight. Another timestamp. Another sighting. More evidence that would likely be dismissed as a coincidence, as paranoia, as a woman overreacting to a man's attention.
But Ann knew better. And as she huddled behind the host stand, waiting for Lena's rescue, Ann faced the terrifying reality that her evidence might never be enough until something happened that couldn't be ignored—something she might not survive to document.
Chapter 29
The boathouse creaked around us,timbers groaning with each gentle rock of the water beneath. We'd fled Sarah's perfect suburban prison before dawn, slipping out through the kitchen door while she and Tommy slept. Now, six hours later, the stench of mildew and fish guts permeated our new sanctuary—an abandoned structure jutting over the murky waters of Copper Bay, far enough from the main channels that casual boaters wouldn't notice us.
Matt was reading the news on his burner phone. His prosthetic leg was propped beside him, giving his residual limb a break after our rushed escape and subsequent hours of searching for a safe location.
Our temporary home was little more than a forgotten fisherman's shelter—rotting floorboards, a partially collapsed roof patched with blue tarp, and the skeletal remains of rod holders mounted to walls that listed dangerously toward the water. We'd pushed moldering crates and broken equipment against one wall to create a small living space, our few belongings arranged with the careful precision of people accustomed to quick departures. Matt played a video.
"Turn it up," I whispered, leaning forward on the overturnedbait bucket that served as my seat. The news anchor's mouth moved silently for a moment before Matt found the volume control.
"—breaking news tonight in what police are now calling a pattern of violent murders across Tampa Bay." The anchor's voice emerged from the phone’s speaker, his professionally concerned expression giving way to a field reporter standing in front of crime scene tape, red and blue lights pulsing in the background. "We go live to Melissa Chen at the scene downtown."
The reporter's face filled the screen, her expression appropriately somber as wind whipped her hair. "Thank you, Jack. I'm standing just outside the police perimeter where the body of a woman in her forties was discovered less than three hours ago in what authorities are describing as a methodical, execution-style murder with disturbing similarities to the killing of Richard Collins last week."
My breath caught as the screen changed to show the cordoned-off area. Even with the camera keeping a respectful distance, I could make out the chalk outline on the pavement. A sheet-covered form lay at the center of the activity, partially visible as crime scene technicians worked methodically around it.
"Jesus," Matt breathed, his hand reaching instinctively for mine. "This happened right downtown."
