Victor nodded. "It escalated fast. She started asking me to take photos of him sleeping." His expression turned grim. "That's when I knew something wasn't right."
Matt and I exchanged glances, both recognizing the pattern. Sarah had been manufacturing evidence against Collins the same way she was now framing me—meticulously, obsessively, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for investigators to follow toward her preferred conclusion.
"Did you do it?" Matt's question carried an edge of judgment.
Victor's jaw tightened. "Some of it. Not the photos while he was sleeping—even I have standards." He shifted his weight, his massive frame casting a longer shadow across the floor as the moon moved behind a cloud. "By then, I was getting uncomfortable with the whole arrangement. I told her I was done."
"How did she react?" I asked, recognizing the critical moment in the narrative.
"She doubled my fee." Victor's laugh held no humor. "Said she just needed a few more weeks of surveillance. Then she started asking questions about you."
The revelation sent a chill through me despite the fact that I'd half-expected it. "What kind of questions?"
"At first, just professional stuff. Your investigation methods and cases you'd worked on. Said she was researching for a true crime book." Victor's expression darkened. "Then she wanted details about your personal life: where you lived, your relationship with Miller here."
"When did you realize what she was really doing?"
"The night Collins died." Victor's voice dropped lower, his eyes taking on that haunted quality again. "She called me, hysterical, saying Collins had attacked her. Asked me to come to her house right away." He rubbed his scarred jaw, the memory clearly disturbing him. "When I got there, she was perfectly calm. She had a drink waiting for me. Collins was already dead in her garage. She told me she had gone to his house for dinner, then shot him in the back and took him with her back home."
Matt stepped forward, his disbelief evident. "And you what—helped her dispose of the body? Did you put it in Eva Rae’s trunk?"
"No." Victor's denial came sharp and immediate. "I walked out. Told her I wasn't getting involved in murder."
"Why are you telling us this now?" I demanded, needing to understand his motivation before I could trust anything he said.
"Because she's gone completely off the rails." Victor's voice took on an urgency that seemed genuine. "She's convinced herself that once you're gone, she and Miller can create some kind of perfect family with her kid. I think her obsession with you, Eva Rae, has made her believe she is you, and she wants to take over your life."
I remembered Sarah's words through the guest room wall: "Tommy needs a proper father figure." The memory made my skin crawl.
"I need specifics," I pressed, sensing there was more Victor wasn't telling us. "Anything that could help us prove she's behind the killings. Did you see evidence? Hear her confess? Were there witnesses?"
Victor's expression changed subtly, a flicker of something crossing his face. “I think she has a?—"
The sharp crack of gunfire cut through his words. Glass exploded inward as a bullet shattered one of the few intact windows. Victor ducked instinctively, his military training evident in the fluid movement.
"Get down!" Matt shouted, already moving toward me as a second shot splintered the wooden wall just inches from my head.
I dropped to the floor, rolling behind the cover of the overturned crate as more bullets peppered the boathouse. The sound of splintering wood and breaking glass filled the small space as our fragile sanctuary came under attack.
Victor had flattened himself against the wall beside the door, his expression grim but unsurprised. He caught my eye across the room, his face illuminated by muzzle flashes from outside.
"It's her," he growled, the confirmation unnecessary as another volley of bullets tore through the boathouse walls.
The attack confirmed his warnings more effectively than any words could have. Sarah Winters had found us, and she had come to finish what she'd started.
Chapter 34
Another sprayof bullets tore through the boathouse wall, sending splinters flying across the room like deadly confetti. I pressed myself lower behind the crate, feeling the wound in my side scream in protest. Across the small space, Matt had taken cover behind an ancient outboard motor, his eyes meeting mine in a silent question: What now? We were rapidly running out of options. The tactical part of my brain calculated our survival odds as increasingly dismal with each passing second.
"Stay down!" Victor barked, his voice cutting through the chaos of splintering wood and shattering glass. He crouched by the doorway, surprisingly agile for a man his size, peering cautiously around the frame before jerking back as another shot punched through the spot where his head had been moments before.
Victor suddenly moved, not toward us but deeper into the boathouse, gesturing urgently with one hand. "There's a hatch under that tarp!" he shouted over the gunfire. "Back corner!"
I stared at him in momentary confusion, my FBI training screaming that this was a trap—that Victor was herding us into a corner where we'd be easier targets. Yet his actions contradicted everything in his psychological profile. The Victor Reeves in our fileswouldn't risk himself to help federal agents; he'd be more likely to use us as human shields.
"Why are you helping us?" I demanded, even as another volley of bullets forced me to duck lower.
"Stop being so stubborn, for crying out loud. I’m trying to help you here. Because she used me!" Victor's face contorted with a rage I recognized wasn't directed at us. "Is that what you want to hear? She made me part of her sick game. Now, move!" He punctuated his command by firing back through the shattered window, providing cover fire with a handgun.
