Matt's expression remained steady. "We need resources, Eva. Someone who understands forensics well enough to spot the inconsistencies in the evidence against you."
I pushed myself off the bed and began pacing the small room, five steps in one direction before being forced to turn. The worn carpet beneath my feet had been walked thin by countless others before me—fugitives, lovers, travelers, all passing through, leavingnothing behind but indentations in a mattress and cigarette burns on the nightstand.
"Juan isn't law enforcement anymore," Matt continued. "He left the department three years ago after that evidence contamination scandal. Remember? The one where they tried to pin the whole thing on him despite systemic problems in the lab."
I did remember. Juan had been the scapegoat in a mess that went all the way up to the commissioner's office. He'd fought back, threatened to expose everything he knew, and eventually walked away with his reputation damaged but his freedom intact. It had been ugly, political, and deeply unfair.
"That's exactly my point," I said, stopping to face Matt. "He has every reason to hate the system. But he also has every reason to curry favor with it now if it helps his PI business. We'd be placing our lives in his hands."
Through the paper-thin walls came the sound of a couple arguing in the next room—a woman's voice rising in frustration, a man's lower tones trying to placate her. On the other side, a television blared a game show, the host's manufactured enthusiasm a jarring counterpoint to our desperate planning. Each sound made me flinch, my nerves raw with the constant vigilance of prey.
"He owes me," Matt said simply, his voice dropping lower. "From before."
I paused my pacing.
"What kind of debt?" I asked.
Outside, a car door slammed in the parking lot. I moved instinctively to the window, pulling back the edge of the curtain just enough to peer out. An elderly couple shuffled toward the motel office, nothing suspicious about them except perhaps their willingness to stay in such a dismal establishment.
“The kind we need right now.”
I let the curtain fall back into place but remained standing by the window, my back pressed against the wall. "So, you trust him because you helped him once?"
"I trust him because he risked his career to expose a lie. That’s whatI helped him with. I don’t want to go into details, but he did it when there was nothing in it for him." Matt's eyes held mine. "He could have walked away and not fought back. Most people would have. He didn't."
Another door slammed somewhere down the hall. Footsteps passed our room, heavy and purposeful. I found myself holding my breath until they faded away. Part of me knew my hypervigilance bordered on paranoia, but I'd learned that paranoia was often just good sense wearing an unflattering name.
"We can't trust anyone right now," I repeated, but with less conviction.
"We can't do this alone," Matt countered softly. "You know that, Eva Rae. Whoever framed you has resources, access, and a plan that's been in motion for longer than we've been aware of it. We need someone who can move in circles we can't access anymore."
He was right. The precision of the frame against me suggested someone with intimate knowledge of forensic procedure and evidence collection. Someone who understood how to construct a case that would withstand scrutiny. Someone who knew me well enough to anticipate my movements and reactions.
Someone who might leave traces that only an expert like Juan Ramirez could detect.
Matt's phone buzzed with an incoming text. He glanced at the screen, then turned it so I could see.
Tomorrow. 9 a.m. Old fishing pier at Henderson Beach. Come alone.
“So, you did more than just think about reaching out to him,” I say. “You knew I’d cave.”
"He'll help us," Matt said, tucking the phone away.
I rubbed my temples, feeling the dull throb of a tension headache building behind my eyes.
"Fine. But we change locations immediately afterward, regardless of how the meeting goes." I dropped my hand and met his gaze directly. "And I'm coming with you. If he's setting us up, we face it together."
Matt didn't argue, just nodded once in acknowledgment. The room's single overhead bulb cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, highlighting thestubborn set of his jaw. Three days on the run had aged us both, stripped away pretense and comfort, leaving only the bare essentials of who we were.
"We should try to get some sleep," he said, though we both knew rest would be elusive. "Tomorrow could change everything."
Or end everything, I thought, but didn't say.
Through the wall, the arguing couple had gone quiet. The game show had ended, replaced by the dramatic score of a crime procedural. The irony wasn't lost on me—fictional detectives solving crimes in neat forty-minute packages while real-life law enforcement hunted an innocent woman across Tampa Bay.
The single bulb flickered overhead, threatening to plunge us into darkness at any moment—a fitting metaphor for our circumstances—as we clung to a faltering light while shadows gathered around us.
"We're down to our last few hundred dollars," I said, mentally calculating our dwindling resources. "Three more prepaid phones. One change of clothes each." I met Matt's eyes. "If Juan can't or won't help us, what's plan B?"
