The reporter continued, her voice taking on the hushed tone reserved for particularly gruesome details. "Sources close to the investigation tell us that, like Richard Collins, the victim was shot twice in the back with a .38 caliber weapon. However, what makes this case particularly disturbing is that a note was found pinned to the victim's clothing."
The screen showed a blurred image of what appeared to be a piece of paper that was hard to read. But I could make out what looked like my name at the top.
"While police have not released the contents of the note, our sources confirm it was a letter from former FBI agent Eva Rae Thomas, the prime suspect in both murders."
My face appeared on screen—my official FBI photograph from years ago, looking confident and professional in my Bureau jacket.The image dissolved into a more recent shot from my book jacket, then a grainy surveillance photo that must have been taken in the past week. The collection of images created a visual progression, transforming me from a respected law enforcement officer to a fugitive.
"This is—" I began, but the words died in my throat as the broadcast continued.
"Police are now openly referring to these killings as the work of a serial offender," the reporter said, her expression grave. "Tampa PD has upgraded their advisory, warning that Thomas should be considered armed and extremely dangerous."
Matt cursed under his breath, his fingers tightening around mine as the anchor reappeared, looking directly into the camera. "If you're just joining us, we have breaking news on what police are now calling the 'Profiler Murders.' A second victim has been found, and authorities believe former FBI profiler Eva Rae Thomas is responsible for both killings."
The screen split to show my photograph alongside the crime scene. The juxtaposition made my stomach turn—my face and the shrouded body, linked forever in viewers' minds. The banner across the bottom read: "MANHUNT INTENSIFIES: FORMER FBI PROFILER SUSPECTED IN SERIAL KILLINGS."
"I’m being framed for another murder," I whispered, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. The analytical part of my brain—the part trained through decades of FBI work—continued functioning despite the horror washing over me. "She's escalating, creating a pattern that fits the profile of a serial killer."
Matt’s phone rang. He checked the display before answering. "I recognize the number. It’s Juan," he acknowledged, his voice low as he put the call on speaker.
"Are you watching the news?" Juan Ramirez's voice crackled through the small speaker, tension evident even through the poor connection.
"We are," Matt confirmed, his eyes never leaving my face.
"It's worse than what they're reporting," Juan said. "The victim was shot twice from behind, just like Collins, but this time there wasobvious staging of the body. And the note—" he paused, the silence heavy with implication.
"They're calling you a serial killer now," Juan continued, his voice tense. "Every cop in three counties is looking for you. The FBI has been officially called in. I've never seen a manhunt of this magnitude."
“Well, technically, you have to have killed three people to be called that, but who’s counting?” I said.
I opened my own phone and went through the news channels. Each showed variations of the same coverage—my face splashed across the screen with warnings about my dangerous nature, experts speculating about my "psychological break," talking heads discussing my FBI career as if searching for signs of instability that had been there all along.
"They've created a task force," Juan added. "The director held a press conference an hour ago. Your former colleagues are leading the manhunt, Eva Rae."
I closed my eyes briefly, imagining the faces of agents I'd trained, worked alongside, and trusted with my life—now hunting me like an animal. When I opened them again, the television showed split-screen coverage: the crime scene on one side, and on the other, a photograph of me with my daughter at her high school graduation three years ago. The image had been cropped to isolate me, my smile now recontextualized as something sinister.
The water lapped gently against the pilings beneath us, the boathouse shifting with each wave. Like my former life, it was a structure on the verge of collapse, held together by nothing more than stubborn determination and increasingly fragile connections to solid ground.
Chapter 30
Matt endedthe call with Juan, the phone's screen going dark in his hand like a snuffed candle. I stared at my own face on the news—a face now synonymous with murder in the minds of millions. Outside, the wind picked up, sending ripples across the bay water and causing our fragile shelter to protest with creaks and groans. Matt pushed himself to his feet, reattaching his prosthetic with quick, practiced movements before pacing the narrow confines of our hideout, his footsteps heavy on the weathered planks.
"We need to get as far away from Tampa as possible," he said, his voice tight with controlled urgency. "North Carolina, maybe even further. Somewhere they won't be looking." He gestured toward the door. "Juan has contacts who can get us new identities. We disappear, regroup, figure out our next move from somewhere safe."
I remained seated, watching him move back and forth across the uneven floorboards. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back—a caged tiger measuring the limits of his confinement. The news anchor continued speaking, but I reached over and silenced him with a press of the button. The sudden quiet amplified the sounds of our refuge—water slapping against the pilings, wind whistlingthrough gaps in the walls, the distant call of a night bird somewhere along the shore.
"We can't leave," I said finally, my voice calm despite the storm of emotions beneath the surface. "Not yet."
Matt stopped pacing, turning to face me with disbelief etched across his features. "Did you miss the part where every law enforcement officer in Florida is hunting for you? Where they've just upgraded you from suspect to serial killer?" He ran his hand through his hair— his tell when frustration threatened to overwhelm him.
"Rule One of The Profiler's Code," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "Trust the evidence, not the narrative." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "The narrative says I'm killing people execution-style and leaving notes. The evidence—if we could access it—would tell a different story."
"Eva—" he began, but I continued, my voice gathering strength as I spoke.
"Sarah Winters is behind this," I said, certainty hardening my tone. "She killed Collins. She killed this woman. She's systematically framing me, and if we run now, she wins. I'll never clear my name."
Matt's shoulders sagged slightly, his expression shifting from frustration to concern. "I know you think it's Sarah. And after what we saw in her house last night, I believe she's involved. But staying here is suicide."
I stood. "Think about it, Matt. Sarah knew Collins." I tapped the printed emails. "Someone was stalking him—someone whose writing exhibits classic erotomanic fixation patterns. Then he ends up dead the night after meeting with Sarah."
