"Ms. Porter," Ramirez began, stepping forward, "I strongly recommend?—"
But Ann had already slammed the door shut, turned the key in the ignition, and thrown the car into drive. The tires squealed against the pavement as she accelerated away from the officers, from their judgmental eyes that suggested she had been living in a reality entirely of her own creation.
As streetlights flashed past her window in rhythmic succession, Ann's gaze caught on her own reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes wide and desperate, face pale with shock. For one terrible moment, she didn't recognize the person staring back at her. The realization settled over her with suffocating weight: if the evidence was true, if the documentation wasn't fabricated… then she had been the stalker all along—the hunter rather than the hunted—the threat rather than the victim.
The road blurred before her as tears filled her eyes, the restraining order lying on the passenger seat beside her—physical proof of a reality she couldn't bear to accept but could no longer deny.
Chapter 44
Sarah's footstepson the basement stairs echoed like a death knell. Each measured step brought her closer to our hiding place, the rhythm steady and unhurried—a predator confident in cornering her prey. Matt's eyes met mine in the dim light, a silent question passing between us. We had seconds, not minutes, to make a decision. The storage bins would conceal us for moments at most, and Sarah knew exactly what she was looking for, what she was hunting.
I pointed toward the far corner of the basement, where the water heater created a shadow deep enough to potentially shield our escape. Matt nodded, understanding instantly. When Sarah reached the midpoint of the stairs, we moved in perfect synchronization, sliding from behind the storage bins toward the deeper darkness as she descended. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat feeling loud enough to give us away.
Sarah paused on the third-to-last step, a gun clutched in her hand. "I know you're down here," she called, her voice carrying that same pleasant lilt I'd heard when she'd offered us cookies in her perfect kitchen. "There's no need to hide. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
The water heater stood against the wall adjacent to the cellar window we'd entered through. If we timed it perfectly, we might reach the window while Sarah was distracted, checking her shrine. Matt gripped my arm, drawing my attention to the hammer hanging on a pegboard nearby. I gave a slight nod as he reached for it—we needed any advantage we could get.
Sarah reached the bottom of the stairs, her shadow stretching across the concrete floor. "Eva? Matt? Don't you want to see what else I've prepared for you?" She moved toward the shrine door, her back momentarily to us.
That was our chance.
We sprinted for the window, abandoning stealth for speed. Behind us, Sarah turned at the sound of our footsteps, her pleasant mask falling away. "No!" she shrieked, her voice transforming into something feral and raw. "You can't leave yet!"
Matt reached the window first, boosting me toward the opening without hesitation. I scrambled through, feeling the rough edge of the frame tear my shirt as I emerged into the night air. I turned immediately, reaching back to help Matt, who was already struggling to hoist himself up with one arm, the hammer still clutched in his other hand.
Sarah's fingers closed around his ankle just as I grabbed his wrists. For a moment, we were locked in a grotesque tug-of-war, Matt suspended between us, his face contorted with pain as the pull aggravated his wound. Then he kicked backward with his prosthetic leg, the solid impact breaking Sarah's grip. I hauled him upward with strength born of desperation, both of us tumbling onto the damp grass outside.
"Run," I gasped, pulling him to his feet. We sprinted across the darkened yard, not toward the street where we might be visible, but toward the neighboring property.
By dawn, we'd managed to "borrow" an unlocked car from a restaurant parking lot, leaving behind our burner phone number and a promise to return it—a crime of necessity that Matt's police ethics and my FBI training both rebelled against. We drove to theseediest part of Tampa, where questions weren't asked, and cash was the only currency that mattered.
The motel clerk barely glanced at us when I slid sixty dollars across the counter, his bloodshot eyes more interested in the small television behind the desk than in the identities of his customers. The room smelled of cigarettes and industrial cleaner, the carpet worn to threads in high-traffic areas. But it had a lock, a bathroom, and most importantly, a television.
Sleep came in fitful bursts, both of us too wired from adrenaline and too aware of our vulnerability to fully surrender to exhaustion. When morning finally broke, harsh sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, I sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and turned on the television.
The breaking news banner flashed across the bottom of the screen before the sound even kicked in. My body went rigid as I recognized the hotel in the background—the upscale Bayshore Plaza where I had stayed during my trip here, in the days before the book signing event. Crime scene tape cordoned off the entrance, uniformed officers moving efficiently around the perimeter while plainclothes detectives consulted near a parked ambulance.
"—third victim found early this morning by housekeeping staff," the reporter was saying, her expression professionally somber. "Sources close to the investigation confirm that, like the previous victims, this body was also found with a note of admission of guilt, written by former FBI agent Eva Rae Thomas, who remains at large."
The camera panned to show a gurney being wheeled out, a sheet-covered form strapped to its surface. Forensic technicians in blue gloves moved methodically through the scene, placing numbered markers beside evidence.
"Tampa Police is once again warning that Thomas should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. The FBI has joined the manhunt, with agents from the Behavioral Analysis Unit arriving to assist local authorities."
My own face appeared on screen again—my official FBI photo side by side with a grainy surveillance image from a gas station we'dstopped at days ago. Beneath the photos, the words "ARMED AND DANGEROUS" pulsed in red.
Matt's hand came to rest on my shoulder, his touch warm and steady despite everything we'd been through. "She's accelerating her timeline," he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the screen. “I didn’t think she’d strike again this fast. I should have warned the reporter—what was her name again? Margaret Wells, yes. I could have….”
"You couldn’t have done anything. Chances are she wouldn’t have listened to you,” Matt said. “You’re the most wanted woman in this city right now. Why would she believe you?”
“She's panicking," I continued, forcing myself to analyze the situation professionally despite the sick feeling in my gut. "We weren't supposed to escape the basement. We weren't supposed to find the evidence. Now, she's improvising."
The reporter continued her grim narrative, each word confirming my worst fears: "Police have not released the victim's identity, but witnesses report seeing a woman matching Thomas's description near the hotel yesterday evening."
The footage showed a redheaded woman on a surveillance camera, but I knew it wasn’t me. It was Sarah wearing a wig. Sarah wasn't just framing me anymore. She was becoming me—inserting herself into the narrative as my doppelgänger, ensuring witnesses would place "me" at the crime scene. The precision of her planning made my blood run cold. She had studied me, stalked me, and now she was systematically destroying everything I had built, all in service to her delusional fantasy of claiming Matt and creating her perfect family.
And she was winning.
Chapter 45
