“Didn’t he get a restraining order against the stalker? Why would he meet with Sarah if she was the stalker?” he asked. “If he had a restraining order against her?”
“Maybe he got a restraining order against the wrong person?” I said. “Maybe because Sarah was using burner phones, he thought it was someone else? Maybe he thought he could trust Sarah, but he couldn’t.”
“And since he refused her advances, she murdered him. Yeah, that makes sense,” Matt said.
“In the mind of a very sick individual, it would.”
The boathouse creaked around us as I walked to the opposite wall, where we'd taped up photographs and notes—our own investigation board, pieced together from scraps of evidence we'd managed to gather.
"Remember when we first went on the run? When I'd just been accused of Collins' murder?" I turned to face Matt, watching realization dawn on his face. "Sarah said she wanted to help clear my name."
Matt nodded slowly. "She seemed so genuine."
"Too genuine. Too prepared." I traced my finger along a timeline we'd created. "She had burner phones in her drawer. A wall covered with information about me. She knew my coffee preferences." I turned to face him fully. "She wasn't helping us, Matt. She was tracking us."
"Even if you're right?—"
"I am right," I interrupted, certainty burning through me like a flame. "She orchestrated this entire frame. She's been planning it for quite some time, probably."
"Fine," Matt conceded, stepping closer. "Let's say she's behind everything. That's even more reason to get distance. We can gather evidence remotely, work through Juan, build our case from somewhere she can't reach us."
"No," I shook my head firmly. "We need proximity. We need to catch her making a mistake."
Outside, rain began to fall, light drops becoming a steady patter against the weathered roof. A tarp covering part of the ceiling billowed slightly with each gust of wind, water collecting in its center before spilling onto the floor in the corner. The storm was picking up, mirroring the tension in our small space.
"This is your life we're talking about," Matt said, his voice rising slightly. "Your freedom. Your future. Our children’s future. We can't gamble that on the hope that a meticulous killer who's planned this for years will suddenly make a convenient mistake."
"She will," I countered, moving to stand directly in front of him. "Her obsession with details makes her vulnerable. She's not just framing me; she's playing a game with me."
The wind howled suddenly, sending a spray of water through a gap in the wall. Matt flinched as droplets hit his face, but I continued, my voice low and intense.
"Sarah sees this as some twisted courtship. Collins rejected her, and she eliminated him. Now she's eliminating what she sees as obstacles between you and her. She wants me discredited, imprisoned, or dead so she can create space for her fantasy life with you."
Matt's expression darkened. "The comment about Tommy needing a father figure."
"Exactly." I nodded. "This isn't just about framing me. It's about claiming you. In her mind, she's creating a vacancy in your life that she can fill." I reached out, my fingers brushing his arm. "If we run, she'll follow. And she'll keep killing to maintain the narrative she's creating."
The boathouse gave another protesting groan as the thunderstorm intensified outside. Water had begun to seep through cracks in the floorboards, forming small puddles. Matt looked down at my hand on his arm, then back to my face.
"So, what's your plan?" he asked, his resistance softening slightly. "We can't exactly walk into police headquarters with theories about Sarah's obsession."
"We need concrete evidence that links her to the murders," I said, stepping back toward our makeshift investigation board. "Proof she was stalking Collins. What’s her connection to the second victim? Anything that disrupts the narrative she's?—"
The distinct sound of footsteps on the wooden dock outside cut through my words—heavy, deliberate steps approaching the boathouse door. We both froze. Matt extinguished the lamp with one quick movement, plunging us into darkness.
The footsteps stopped directly outside our door. A pause, pregnant with threat. Then, the unmistakable sound of the rusted latch being tested from the outside.
Chapter 31
THEN:
Ann paused outside Granger's front entrance, her fingertips still burning with the memory of the small electronic device she'd discovered beneath her car the night before. A tracking device. This was how he knew where she was at all times.
She hadn't driven to work today—couldn't bear to sit in the vehicle that had been violated, transformed from transportation into surveillance. Instead, she'd asked Miriam to pick her up, had spent the fifteen-minute ride obsessively checking the rearview mirror for patrol car 37. The restaurant's familiar façade should have offered comfort, the routine of her job a respite from the growing nightmare of Marcus Hale's surveillance. Instead, she found herself scanning the parking lot for the patrol car with the telltale dent in its bumper, before forcing herself to push through the door.
The restaurant's interior enveloped her in familiar scents—fresh coffee, bacon from the breakfast rush, Chef Cho's signature soup simmering for the lunch crowd. Ann inhaled deeply, momentarily steadied by the ordinary. Her fingers moved automatically to tie herapron strings as she stepped past the hostess stand, nodding mechanically at the morning hostess who was gathering menus for the shift change.
Then she saw them.
