The man's attention shifted reluctantly to Matt. "How many nights?"
"Just one," Matt replied, placing several worn bills on the counter. Cash only—one of our new rules for survival. No credit cards, no paper trails, nothing that could be traced or tracked.
The owner's gnarled fingers sorted through the bills with practiced efficiency.
I held my breath, watching the man's face for any hint of suspicion. After what felt like an eternity, he reached beneath the counter and produced a key attached to a plastic diamond-shaped fob with the number 17 faded almost to illegibility.
His fingers closed around the key for a moment too long before extending it toward Matt. "Last one at the end," he said, his voice like sandpaper on wood. "Check out's at eleven. No exceptions."
Matt nodded his thanks, reaching for the key.
"You folks in town for business or pleasure?" the owner asked, his eyes sliding back to my face with uncomfortable intensity.
"Just passing through," Matt replied, his tone casual but firm, signaling an end to the conversation.
The owner nodded slowly, his hawk-like gaze following us as we turned away. "Enjoy your stay," he called after us, the words carrying an undercurrent that raised the hair on the back of my neck.
We walked down the open-air hallway, our footsteps echoing against peeling paint and concrete. The air smelled of mildew and ocean salt, the nearby bay asserting its presence.
"He recognized you," Matt murmured, his voice barely audible above the distant sound of traffic from the highway.
I kept my eyes forward, counting room numbers. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"We'll be gone by morning either way."
Room 17 greeted us with a blast of stale air when Matt pushed open the door. I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. A double bed dominated the space, its faded floral spread sagging in the middle like a hammock. Wood-paneled walls gave the room a claustrophobic feel, and the carpet beneath our feet was worn thin along a path from the door to the bathroom.
Matt locked the door behind us, using both the standard lock and the flimsy chain. Without a word, he began his security sweep—a routine we'd established over the past three days. He moved methodically through the small space, checking the phone for taps, examining air vents for cameras, and unscrewing lamp bases to look for bugs. I watched him probe behind the framed landscape print on the wall—a generic watercolor of a sunset that had probably hung there since the Reagan administration.
While Matt worked, I drew the curtains tight against the darkening evening and switched on the ancient television set, keeping the volume low. The screen flickered to life with local news, and my stomach dropped as my own face stared back at me from behind the broadcaster's shoulder. My official FBI headshot—professional, composed, a lifetime away from the desperate woman I'd become.
"The manhunt continues for former FBI profiler Eva Rae Thomas, now considered armed and extremely dangerous," the anchor intoned gravely. "Thomas is wanted in connection with the homicide of 55-year-old Richard Collins earlier this week. Police warn the public not to approach Thomas if spotted, but to contact authorities immediately."
My fingers dug into the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking beneath my white-knuckled grip. Seeing myself and hearing myself getting portrayed like this was unbearable. But it was my reality right now.
Matt finished his sweep and sat beside me on the bed, theancient mattress sagging under our combined weight. "No bugs. No cameras. We're clean."
I nodded, but the temporary security offered little comfort. The walls of this trap were closing in around us.
"We can't keep running," I said, my voice hollow in the shabby room. "They'll find us eventually."
Matt's hand covered mine, warm and solid. "Then we stop running and start fighting back."
I turned to him and studied the determination in his blue eyes. After twenty years in the FBI, I'd learned to read faces like most people read street signs. Matt wasn't offering blind optimism or false hope. He had a plan.
Through the thin walls, I could hear a television playing in the next room, the muffled voices of guests in the parking lot, and the distant hum of traffic on the highway. The mundane soundtrack of normal lives continued while mine imploded spectacularly.
"How?" I asked.
Outside, car headlights swept across our curtained window, momentarily illuminating the room with harsh light before plunging us back into shadow. In that brief flash, I caught sight of our reflections in the bathroom mirror—two exhausted, hunted people, backed into a corner with nowhere left to run.
But still fighting.
Chapter 5
"I've been thinkingabout reaching out to Juan Ramirez," Matt said, his weight shifting on the creaking mattress. I turned from the television, my body tensing involuntarily at the name I knew so well. Juan Ramirez—former crime scene technician with Tampa PD, now working as a private investigator, specializing in helping people disappear. A brilliant mind with questionable ethics and an extensive network of contacts that spanned both sides of the law. The last person I wanted involved in our situation—and possibly the only person who could help us.
"No." The word came out sharper than I'd intended. "We can't trust anyone right now, especially not someone with connections to local law enforcement."
