"Weird how?" I prompted gently.
Tommy looked down at the napkins, his fingers stilling. "She talks to herself a lot now. When she thinks I'm asleep, I can hear her in her room, having whole conversations with nobody there." He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "And sometimes she gets really happy for no reason, like something good happened but she won't tell me what. Then other times she gets super mad and breaks things."
The clinical part of my brain cataloged these behaviors—mood swings, possible delusions or hallucinations, episodes of rage—classic signs of deteriorating mental stability. But the part of me that was a mother recognized something else in Tommy's description: fear. This child was afraid in his own home.
He glanced nervously toward the kitchen doors again. "She's been watching the news a lot. She has a special notebook where she writes things down when they talk about you on TV."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with my still-damp clothes. Sarah was documenting the manhunt, tracking the progression of her frame in real-time. The level of obsession suggested she was becoming more unstable, more unpredictable.
"Tommy," I said carefully, "that special room in your basement—do you know if your mom keeps other things there? Maybe things that belonged to Mr. Collins?"
His eyes widened slightly. "I don't know, but…" He leaned closer, his voice barely audible. "Last week I saw her carrying a box down there. It had a gun inside. I wasn't supposed to see, but I was getting water, and she didn't know I was in the kitchen."
My blood ran cold—a gun—possibly the murder weapon used on Collins and the woman they found downtown. Before I could ask another question, Tommy's gaze darted past my shoulder, fear flashing across his face.
"She's coming back," he whispered urgently. "You should go. She gets really mad when?—"
I nodded, straightening up and moving away with casual deliberation, as if I'd simply been passing by. The information Tommy had provided confirmed my worst suspicions about Sarah while adding new, disturbing dimensions to the picture. Whatever was in that basement room might be the key to unraveling her entire frame-up—and potentially saving both our lives.
Chapter 39
I turned awayfrom Tommy just as the kitchen doors swung open. Sarah emerged carrying a fresh tray of bread, her volunteer's smile firmly in place. I kept my head down, moving laterally through the crowd rather than directly back toward Matt. But something—perhaps the movement itself, or some sixth sense born from her obsession—caught Sarah's attention. Her eyes swept the room in a practiced scan that betrayed her casual demeanor, settling on me with laser focus. For a fraction of a second, her smile faltered, the mask slipping to reveal the predator beneath before snapping back into place so quickly that anyone else would have missed it. But I'd seen it. And worse, she'd seen me.
Our eyes locked across the crowded room—hers blue and calculating, mine steady despite the danger. It was a moment of mutual recognition, a silent acknowledgment that the game had entered a new phase. The pleasant mask she wore for the benefit of those around her remained intact, but her eyes told a different story. They held the cold precision I'd witnessed on the dock after the boathouse attack—the unfiltered gaze of a hunter assessing prey.
I maintained my casual pace as I wove through the tables, keeping other shelter occupants between us as much as possible.Sarah placed her tray on the serving table with deliberate care, her movements unhurried but purposeful. She was too smart to create a scene here, surrounded by witnesses. But the calculated glance she directed toward the exit told me everything—she was already planning her next move.
When I reached Matt, I slid down beside him without looking back at Sarah. "We've been made," I murmured, picking up my abandoned bowl of stew and pretending to eat. "Sarah spotted me."
Matt's posture shifted subtly, his body angling toward the nearest exit while maintaining our cover of two homeless people sharing a meal. "How bad?"
"Full recognition." I took a spoonful of the now-cold stew, forcing myself to swallow despite my churning stomach. "But she won't do anything here. Too many witnesses."
I told him everything Tommy had revealed—the locked basement room, Sarah's erratic behavior, the gun she'd hidden, Collins' visits that had mysteriously stopped. With each detail, Matt's expression grew grimmer.
"That basement is our best lead," he said, keeping his voice low. "Whatever evidence connects her to the murders is probably there."
"Along with whatever she's planning next," I agreed. "Tommy mentioned she keeps a notebook tracking the news coverage about me. She's documenting her own frame-up."
"Narcissists often keep trophies," Matt observed, the detective in him analyzing despite our desperate situation. "She'd want to preserve her 'accomplishment.'"
Across the room, Sarah had moved to Tommy's side, placing a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that appeared affectionate to casual observers. But I noted the tension in her fingers, the slight curl of possession in the way she held him. Tommy's body language shifted immediately—shoulders stiffening, expression becoming more controlled. The natural animation I'd seen during our conversation disappeared, replaced by the careful neutrality of a child walking on eggshells.
"Look at how she's holding him," I whispered to Matt. "That's not protection, it's possession."
Matt nodded, his eyes tracking the pair as Sarah leaned down to whisper something in Tommy's ear. The boy nodded mechanically, his earlier warmth extinguished. "She's using him," Matt said, his voice hardening. "Bringing him here wasn't a coincidence."
"No," I agreed, the realization crystallizing with sickening clarity. "She knew we'd need shelter after the boathouse. This church outreach center is the only one within walking distance of the bay that offers overnight accommodation without ID checks." I watched as Sarah guided Tommy toward the donated clothing area, her arm wrapped possessively around his shoulders. "She predicted our movements, then positioned herself and Tommy here as bait."
"But why Tommy? Why expose her son to this?"
"Because she knows I won't risk harming a child," I said, remembering Rule Seven of The Profiler's Code: Truth before badge. The principle that had guided my FBI career—that finding justice should supersede institutional loyalty or personal safety—extended naturally to the protection of innocents. Sarah had studied me thoroughly enough to know that I would hesitate to take any action that might endanger Tommy. "She's using him as a shield."
Sarah was now helping Tommy into his jacket, her movements efficient but controlling—adjusting his collar, tugging the zipper higher than necessary, her hands constantly touching, directing. She glanced our way again and this time made no effort to hide her recognition. A small, knowing smile curved her lips before she returned her attention to Tommy.
"She's leaving," Matt observed. "Taking Tommy with her."
"And expecting us to follow," I finished. The trap was elegantly simple—Sarah knew we needed to access that basement room, and she was using Tommy's safety to control how and when we'd make the attempt.
