When she finished, Ann uploaded the video to her cloud storage account, naming the file "Insurance," then sent the access link to both Lena and Chef Cho. If something happened to her, the truth would survive. The documentation would remain, even if she did not.
She curled up on her bed fully clothed, phone clutched in her hand, security app open and active on the screen. Sleep would likely prove elusive, but for the first time in weeks, Ann felt something besides fear. A small spark of defiance had ignited within her—a determination that Marcus Hale would not silence her, would not erase her story, would not win his game of psychological warfare without a fight.
Part IV
Chapter 37
The church'sbasement smelled of industrial cleaner and cheap coffee, undercut by the unmistakable scent of unwashed bodies and damp clothing. I hunched deeper into the oversized coat we'd found in a donation bin three blocks back, keeping my head low as Matt and I shuffled through the entrance. My wet clothes clung to me beneath the coat, the chill from our swim in the bay having settled into my bones hours ago. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest, but rest meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant death—or worse, capture by Sarah Winters.
"Keep moving," I murmured to Matt, noting how he favored his right side. The jagged piece of dock that had caught him during our underwater escape had torn a four-inch gash along his ribs. Not deep enough to require stitches, but enough to leave a trail of blood that had soaked through his shirt before we'd managed to press a scavenged T-shirt against it. "Corner spot. Better sightlines."
Matt nodded, his newly unshaven face making him look appropriately disheveled for our cover. He'd smeared dirt across his cheeks before we'd entered, completing the transformation from former detective to homeless veteran. I'd done the same, using mud fromthe bay's edge to streak my hair and face, concealing the features that had been splashed across every news outlet in Florida.
The shelter volunteers barely glanced at us as we made our way through the crowded room. That was the beauty of places like this—the social contract of averting eyes, of not asking questions. People came here to escape notice, making it the perfect cover for two fugitives with nowhere else to turn.
We found a spot against the back wall, positioned between a storage closet and a support column that offered partial concealment while maintaining clear views of both exits. I helped Matt lower himself to the floor, his face tightening with pain he refused to vocalize.
"Let me see it," I said, keeping my voice low as I helped him remove the filthy jacket he'd been wearing. The makeshift bandage we'd applied was soaked through, the blood having slowed but not stopped completely.
"It's fine," Matt insisted, though his pallor suggested otherwise. "Just needs cleaning."
I glanced around, assessing our position and the room's occupants before focusing on his wound.
The gash looked angry, the edges inflamed but clean. No signs of serious infection yet, though that would change quickly without proper treatment. I reached for the small first-aid kit someone at the church had handed me when I asked if they had one.
"This will hurt," I warned as I uncapped the small bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
Matt's jaw tightened. "Just do it."
As I cleaned the wound, my eyes never stopped moving, scanning the room in methodical sweeps. The volunteer at the food table—young woman, early twenties, no visible threat. The security guard by the main entrance—retired police, based on his stance and the way he assessed newcomers. The elderly man distributing blankets—harmless. The middle-aged woman leading prayers in the far corner—potential ally if we needed one, her kind eyes suggesting someone who would help without question.
Matt's hand closed around mine as I pressed a clean gauze padto his side. His fingers were cold, still not fully warmed from our time in the water. "Any sign of pursuit?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
"None yet." I secured the bandage with medical tape; my movements were practiced and efficient. "But Sarah's not the type to give up easily."
The boathouse attack played through my mind in vivid detail—the precision of the assault, the cold calculation in Sarah's eyes as she'd scanned the water for our bodies. She'd been willing to kill us both to protect her elaborate fiction, to maintain the frame she'd constructed around me. And she'd nearly succeeded.
"I know." I cut him off gently. “For now, we need food and rest."
As if on cue, a volunteer announced that the evening meal was being served. People began queuing up near the long tables where steam rose from industrial-sized trays of what smelled like beef stew. My stomach clenched at the thought of food, reminding me that we hadn't eaten since before the boathouse attack nearly twelve hours ago.
"I'll go," I said, patting Matt's arm. "You stay put."
He nodded, conserving energy. We both knew his wound, while not life-threatening, had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. The pain lines around his mouth had deepened in the past hour, and his normally alert eyes had developed a glassy quality that concerned me.
I joined the food line, keeping my head down and my posture stooped to maintain our cover. The volunteers worked efficiently, ladling stew into plastic bowls and handing out slices of bread with practiced movements. One of them—a teenage girl with braces—smiled at me as she passed me a bowl. I mumbled thanks without meeting her eyes, playing my role while continuing to scan the room.
That's when I saw him.
A small figure moved among the volunteers, carrying a tray of bread slices with careful concentration. Dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that struck me as instantly familiar—the same cowlick that Sarah had absentmindedly brushed back when she'd beenplaying the role of concerned friend. The boy turned slightly, revealing a profile that made my heart stutter in my chest.
Tommy Winters.
Sarah's nine-year-old son was here, in this shelter, helping serve food to the homeless. The same child I'd seen in Sarah's immaculate home, playing with toy cars on a perfect lawn. The same child who had watched his mother with wary eyes, flinching slightly when she'd corrected him too sharply.
I froze, my bowl of stew halfway to my chest, as Tommy moved along the serving line. His movements were careful and deliberate—a child trying very hard to do everything correctly. I recognized the behavior of someone accustomed to harsh consequences for small mistakes. It was the same hyperawareness I'd observed in other children from controlling homes, the constant self-monitoring that became second nature when living with unpredictable authority.
My mind raced through possibilities. Was this simply community service, a mother involving her child in charitable work? Or was Sarah here too, somewhere in this crowded room, watching and waiting? Had she somehow tracked us to this shelter, using her son as innocent camouflage for her hunt?
