Daniel's eyebrows rose slightly, his gaze shifting toward table eight, where Marcus now appeared absorbed in his phone.
"The one who comes in for coffee during his lunch break most days?" he asked, his tone careful, neutral.
"Yes." Ann's voice caught, the word emerging as barely more than a breath. "He's been following me for weeks now. Driving past my apartment at night. Pulling me over for traffic violations that didn't happen." Her words tumbled out in a desperate rush. "And now—just now—he was taking pictures of the restaurant. All the exits. The staff areas. Where I work."
Daniel studied her face for a long moment, his expression shifting from concern to something that looked uncomfortably like condescension.
"That's Officer Hale, isn't it?" he said finally, his voice lowering to match her whispered tone, though the gravity she'd hoped for was missing. "Marcus Hale?"
Ann nodded, hope flaring briefly that Daniel recognized the name and might know something about him that could help her case.
"Sounds like you've got yourself an admirer, Ann," Daniel said, his lips curving into a dismissive smile that extinguished her hope like fingers pinching out a candle flame. "Most women would be flattered by attention from a man in uniform."
The familiar refrain—the same dismissive response Tom had given her, that so many others had offered when she'd tried to explain her fears—hit Ann like a physical blow. Her mouth opened to protest, to explain the difference between admiration and obsession, between attention and surveillance, but the words died in her throat as she registered the look in Daniel's eyes. He wasn't taking her seriously. Wouldn't take her seriously.
"It's not—" she began, desperate to make him understand.
"He's just doing his job, Ann," Daniel interrupted, his tone gentle but patronizing, as if explaining something simple to a child. "Police officers maintain awareness of their environments. It's their training." He gestured vaguely toward where Marcus sat. "He's probably just security-conscious. Checking exits, entry points. It becomes a habit for them."
Ann's hands clenched at her sides, nails digging half-moons intoher palms. Another person who couldn't—or wouldn't—see what was happening right in front of them. Another potential ally lost to the plausible deniability that Marcus so carefully maintained.
"But—" she tried again, only to be cut off by a sharp tapping sound from the corner of the restaurant.
Mrs. Mendez sat at her usual table, teaspoon clicking deliberately against her coffee cup as she stared directly at Ann. The elderly woman's eyes were keen and knowing, her mouth set in a firm line as she gestured imperiously for service.
"Your regular in the corner seems to need something," Daniel said, clearly relieved by the interruption. He turned back to his legal papers, effectively dismissing Ann and her concerns in one practiced movement. "Maybe bring me the check when you have a moment?"
Ann stood frozen for a second longer, the weight of Daniel's dismissal settling heavily across her shoulders. Even here, surrounded by people, she was alone with her fear. Isolated by the very plausibility of Marcus's behavior, by the respectability his uniform provided, by the natural inclination of others to believe there must be a rational explanation for what she was experiencing.
The tapping grew more insistent. Ann turned away from Daniel, blinking rapidly to dispel the burn of frustrated tears that threatened to form. As she moved toward the corner table, she felt Marcus's gaze tracking her, knew without looking that he'd observed her conversation with Daniel, and was likely assessing whether this interaction posed a threat to his surveillance.
Her isolation had never felt more complete, more terrifying.
Chapter 32
The footsteps stopped.Three heartbeats of silence followed, heavy and expectant. Matt and I exchanged a glance in the near-darkness, years of partnership allowing us to communicate without words. We both knew who might have found us—Sarah, the police, or someone else entirely. None of those possibilities promised anything but danger.
The latch rattled again, more insistently this time. Matt moved silently to position himself behind the door, his back against the wall, while I crouched behind an overturned fishing crate, ignoring the protest from my still-tender wound.
A gust of wind howled around the boathouse, the sound nearly masking the metallic snap of the lock giving way. Nearly, but not quite. The door flew open with a splintering crack that echoed across the water.
Moonlight spilled through the doorway, silhouetting a massive figure that filled the frame. I recognized him instantly—Victor Reeves, "The Collector." The man who'd watched us escape from the motel days ago, the volatile ex-security contractor with the silver ring that left distinctive marks on his victims.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I assessed the tacticalsituation with cold precision. Victor blocked our only obvious exit. His size and known combat experience made physical confrontation a last resort. The boathouse windows were too small for a quick escape, and the water beneath offered minimal cover for a retreat. In the dim light, I could make out the bulk of his shoulders, the military stance, the slight forward lean that suggested readiness to lunge.
Matt shifted his weight imperceptibly, angling his body to create a barrier between Victor and me despite the obvious disadvantage he faced. The slight sound drew Victor's attention, his head turning toward Matt's position. I seized that split-second of distraction, rising from behind the crate, standing behind him with a metal pipe pushed against his spine, a make-believe gun.
"Don't move," I commanded, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system.
Victor froze, his features becoming clearer as my eyes adjusted. His breathing was controlled, but rapid, nostrils flaring slightly with each exhale. His hands—capable of inflicting the devastating damage I'd seen in crime scene photos—hung at his sides.
Then, to my astonishment, he slowly raised them in a gesture of surrender.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards beneath my feet. "I’m here to warn you. She's coming for you next."
The statement hung in the air between us, unexpected enough to momentarily disrupt my focus. Matt had emerged from his position, moving to stand slightly. I felt rather than saw his protective stance, his body angled to absorb any potential attack.
"Who's coming?" Matt demanded, though I suspected we both knew the answer.
