"This was under my car," she said. "Installed without my knowledge or consent. After I found it, I had a mechanic friend check it out." She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice steady. "It's a tracking device, Tom."
Tom reached for the bag hesitantly, as if the device might somehow activate through the plastic. He held it up to the flickering fluorescent light, examining the smooth black casing.
"Jesus," he muttered, the word barely audible. “So, it’s true?”
Tom set the device down carefully. He rubbed his hand across his face, the gesture stripping away years of professional distance, revealing genuine concern beneath.
"Why didn't you bring this to me sooner?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"I tried," Ann replied, the words emerging more exhausted than accusatory. "You told me I was overreacting. That I should be flattered by his attention."
Tom winced, recognizing his own dismissive words reflected back at him. "I thought—" He paused, reconsidering. "I'm sorry, Ann. I should have listened."
The simple acknowledgment—so long awaited—hit Ann with unexpected force. Her eyes burned with sudden tears that she refused to let fall, blinking rapidly to dispel them. This wasn't a time for emotional release; it was a moment to press her advantage, to cement the ally she'd finally found.
"What do I do now?" she asked, her voice steadying. "He has the entire police department behind him. Who would even take my report seriously?"
Tom was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the tracking device still sitting between them. When he spoke again, his voice carried a new resolve.
"My brother-in-law," he said finally. "Works for the state police. Internal investigations division." He looked up, meeting Ann's eyes directly. "This isn't just a personal issue anymore. If an officer is abusing his position, planting surveillance devices—that's corruption. That's something the state-level guys take very seriously."
A fragile hope unfurled in Ann's chest—not quite relief, not yet, but the first breath of possibility that her nightmare might have witnesses beyond her own frightened documentation.
"Will he help?" she asked, hardly daring to believe after so many closed doors, so many dismissals.
"I'll call him today," Tom promised, sliding the device back across the desk toward her. "Keep this safe. Document everything, like you've been doing." He hesitated, then added with grim certainty, "And Ann? Don't be alone if you can help it. Not until we get this sorted."
Ann nodded, reclaiming the device with careful fingers. She recognized the shift in Tom's demeanor—the transition from skepticismto belief, from dismissal to concern. It should have felt like victory. Instead, it highlighted how serious her situation had become. If even Tom, who'd known Marcus for years, now saw the danger, then her instincts had been right all along.
She was being hunted by a man with a badge, and the hunt was accelerating toward its endgame.
The last customer shuffled out of Granger's at 10:17, leaving behind a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim and a tip too small for the time they'd occupied the table. Ann wiped down the surface with mechanical efficiency, her movements precise despite the exhaustion that pulled at her limbs as if gravity had doubled. She hadn't slept properly in days—perhaps weeks—and the constant vigilance required to monitor the dining room while avoiding Marcus and his colleagues had drained what little energy remained after her restless nights. All she wanted was the temporary sanctuary of her apartment with its new locks and security camera, the small fortress she'd created against the watching eyes that followed her movements through the world.
"I'll walk you out," Tom said, appearing beside her as she collected her purse from the break room locker. His keys jangled in his hand, the restaurant's alarm remote already poised between his fingers.
The simple acknowledgment—that her fear was valid, her danger real—created a complicated knot of emotion in Ann's chest. Relief that someone finally believed her. Gratitude for the small protection Tom offered. Terror that even this knowledgeable ally might not be enough against what awaited her beyond the restaurant's walls.
They moved through the closing routine with practiced efficiency—lights dimmed, alarm system primed, back door secured. Tom held the employee exit open, gesturing for Ann to precede him into the parking lot. The spring night air carried a hint of chill, raising goosebumps on Ann's forearms as she stepped outside.
The employee parking area was dimly lit, shadows stretching between the few remaining vehicles. Lena's car was gone, as was Chef Cho's—only Tom's aging pickup and Ann's Honda remained, separated by three empty spaces. Ann's eyes performed their habitual scan—left to right, right to left, checking each potential hiding spot, each darkened corner where a figure might lurk unseen.
"All clear," Tom said, misinterpreting her hesitation as a request for him to check the surroundings. He moved ahead of her, keys jingling with each step, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet lot.
Ann followed, her own keys already positioned between her knuckles in the defensive formation she'd adopted weeks ago. She kept close to Tom's back, using his larger form as both shield and guide through the darkness. The security light above her parking space flickered erratically, creating strobing shadows that transformed ordinary objects into potential threats.
Tom reached her car first, his stride faltering as he approached the passenger side. "Ah, hell," he muttered, the words emerging as a sigh of resignation rather than surprise.
Ann moved beside him, following his gaze to her front passenger-side tire. Even in the unreliable light, the damage was unmistakable—the rubber completely deflated, the tire sitting flat against the asphalt. Her throat tightened as Tom crouched beside it, pulling out his phone to illuminate the damage.
"That's no nail," he said, voice hardening as his flashlight beam revealed a clean, precise slice across the sidewall. "Someone did this deliberately."
Ann's keys slipped from her suddenly trembling fingers, clattering against the asphalt with a sound that made her flinch. "He's escalating," she whispered, the words emerging with such certainty that Tom didn't bother questioning who "he" might be. They both knew.
Tom straightened, retrieving her fallen keys and pressing them gently back into her palm. "I'll call roadside assistance," he said, already pulling out his phone. "You can leave the car here overnight. I'll drive you home."
Ann nodded mechanically, her eyes still fixed on the damagedtire. The cut was surgical in its precision—not a jagged tear or puncture, but a clean slice that would ensure complete deflation without the dramatic noise of a blowout. Calculated. Controlled. A message rather than mere vandalism.
"They'll be here in twenty minutes," Tom said after completing the call. He leaned against the hood of her car, arms crossed over his chest as they prepared to wait. "My brother-in-law's coming into town tomorrow. Said he'd meet us here, take your statement officially."
