Tommy handed a slice of bread to an elderly woman, his smile shy but genuine. There was nothing calculated in that expression, nothing that suggested he was part of any trap. Just a child doing what his mother had instructed, unaware of his role in a larger, darker game.
I moved back toward Matt, food in hand but appetite gone, my eyes never leaving Tommy's small form as he continued his volunteer work. The coincidence was too great. Sarah Winters was here, or close by—of that I was certain. And that meant we were no longer as safe as I'd thought.
Chapter 38
I returnedto Matt with two bowls of stew and information far more valuable than food. "Tommy Winters is here," I whispered, settling beside him against the wall. "Sarah's son."
Matt's eyes widened slightly. I placed my hand over his, steadying him. "This isn't a coincidence. Sarah must be here too." We both understood the implications: our temporary sanctuary had just become another trap in Sarah's elaborate game.
"You sure it's him?" Matt asked, his voice low as he took the bowl from me.
"Positive."
I picked up my spoon but didn't eat, my attention fixed on Tommy as he moved between the food tables. "He's helping serve, which means Sarah must be volunteering too. I need to see if I can talk to him."
Matt's expression tightened with concern. "That's risky, Eva."
"So is walking into another of Sarah's traps blind." I set my untouched bowl aside. "Children notice things adults don't think they reveal. If Sarah's been planning all this for years, Tommy might have seen something useful."
For fifteen minutes, I watched Tommy work while scanning the room for Sarah. Eventually, I spotted her supervising a group of volunteers organizing donated clothing at the far end of the room. Her back was to us, her hair pulled into a casual ponytail—the picture of selfless community service. My stomach turned at the performance, knowing what lurked beneath the carefully constructed façade.
When Sarah finally headed toward the kitchen area, disappearing through swinging doors, I saw my opportunity. I squeezed Matt's shoulder and stood, moving casually through the crowded room toward the corner where Tommy now stood folding napkins. I approached from an angle that wouldn't be immediately visible from the kitchen, adopting the slightly stooped posture of our homeless disguise.
"Need some help with those?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle as I stopped beside him.
Tommy looked up, his eyes widening slightly as recognition flickered across his face. "You're the lady from TV," he said, his voice hushed but not frightened. "The one they said hurt people."
I crouched down to his eye level, maintaining a non-threatening distance. "My name is Eva Rae," I said, deliberately omitting my last name. "I came and visited you at your house, remember? And no, I didn't hurt anyone. Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes about things like that."
Tommy studied my face with the unfiltered intensity only children can manage. "Mom says you're dangerous," he said, then added with surprising candor, "but you don't look dangerous. You look tired."
A smile tugged at my lips despite the gravity of our situation. "I am tired," I admitted. "It's hard when people think you did something you didn't do."
He nodded with unexpected understanding. "That happens to me sometimes. Mom gets mad about things I didn't do."
The opening was perfect—a natural segue that any trained interviewer would recognize. During my years with the FBI, I'dinterviewed dozens of children, learning to follow their lead rather than directing them too forcefully. Now I employed those same techniques, keeping my body language open and my voice conversational.
"That must be hard," I said, picking up a napkin and beginning to fold it, mirroring his activity to establish a connection. "What kinds of things does your mom get mad about?"
Tommy shrugged, his small fingers working deftly at folding. "When I go places I'm not supposed to. Or when I talk to people she doesn't like." He glanced toward the kitchen doors, then added in a lower voice, "Or when I ask about the special room."
I kept my expression neutral despite the alarm bells ringing internally. "Special room?"
He nodded, continuing to fold napkins as we spoke. "In our basement. Mom has a lock on it. I'm not allowed to go in there, ever." His eyes darted toward the kitchen again. "She gets really mad if I even ask about it."
"Have you ever seen inside this room?" I asked, careful to maintain my casual tone while my heart raced.
Tommy shook his head. "Once I peeked when she left the door open a little. I saw lots of pictures on the wall and a desk with a computer on it. Mom was really angry when she caught me." His voice dropped further. "She didn't let me have dinner that night and made me stay in my room all weekend."
The punishment revealed more about Sarah's controlling nature—the disproportionate response to a child's natural curiosity. I handed him another folded napkin, our fingers briefly touching in a gesture meant to reassure.
"Does your mom have friends who visit?" I asked, thinking of Collins and his connection to Sarah.
Tommy's face brightened slightly. "Mr. Collins used to come over. He was nice. He brought me books about space and answered my questions. Mom acted different when he was there—more smiley." His expression fell. "But he stopped coming. Mom said he did something bad and couldn't visit anymore."
"When did he stop visiting?"
"A while ago. Before…" He hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Before Mom started acting weird."
