After a restless sleep,I got up the next morning and couldn't remain still. The motel walls seemed to close in with each passing hour, the worn carpet beneath my feet developing a visible path from my repetitive pacing. The television’s morning news programs continued to broadcast updates about Margaret Wells's murder, each report adding details that linked the crime more firmly to me. They were analyzing my career now, forensic psychologists and former colleagues dissecting my methods and my cases, searching for the moment when I had supposedly snapped. It was surreal watching strangers dismantle the life I'd built, using Sarah's carefully planted evidence to construct a monster wearing my face.
"She doesn't just want to frame me," I said suddenly, stopping mid-stride as the full picture crystallized in my mind. Matt looked up from his position by the window, where he'd been keeping watch through a narrow gap in the curtains. "This is complete identity absorption." I resumed pacing, my thoughts racing ahead of my words. "In Sarah's mind, she's not just removing me—she's replacing me. Each murder isn't just evidence against me; it's her audition for my role." I gestured toward the muted television. "She'sdemonstrating that she understands my methodology better than I do, that she's more worthy of being Eva Rae Thomas than I am."
"And claim everything that was yours," Matt added quietly.
"This isn't just an obsession—it's a complete psychological transference. She wants to erase me and become me in the same gesture."
Matt watched me carefully, his expression reflecting both professional assessment and personal concern. "You're talking about a whole other level of delusion."
"Because it's been festering for years," I explained. "Each rejection she has gotten, even from Collins, reinforced her belief that she deserves better, that happiness is being kept from her by others. She's not just stalking or obsessing—she's constructing an entirely new reality where she gets everything she believes she's entitled to."
"Each kill becomes more public, more dramatic than the last,” Matt said. “She wants attention now—needs it to complete the frame."
"We need to ensure Tommy's safety throughout this," I said, thinking of Sarah's son with his careful movements and watchful eyes. "Whatever we do, he can't be collateral damage in his mother's delusion."
Matt's expression softened. "You're right. We should contact social services anonymously, make sure he's removed from the situation before we confront Sarah."
"She'll have contingencies for that," I warned. "She's too controlling to leave Tommy's whereabouts to chance, especially now that she knows we've seen her shrine."
"Then we build that into our plan," Matt decided. "Approach when Tommy is at school or with a relative?—"
The burner phone chimed with a text message notification, interrupting our planning. We both stared at it for a moment. I reached for it slowly, a sense of dread building in my chest even before I unlocked the screen.
The image loaded gradually in the poor reception of our motel room—first a pair of frightened eyes, then the rest of a young face I recognized immediately. Tommy Winters stared into the camera, hisexpression a mixture of confusion and terror. A bruise darkened his left cheek, fresh enough that it hadn't fully developed. Below the photo, a message in stark black text:
Only you can save him now.
My hand trembled slightly as I showed the phone to Matt, watching his face harden as he processed what we were seeing. "She's using him as bait," I said, my voice tight with a fury I rarely allowed myself to feel. "And she knows I can't ignore it."
I paused in my preparations, the full weight of what we were facing settling over me. "She's going beyond what we anticipated. Using her own son as leverage shows how far out she is—the maternal protection instinct is usually the last to break down, even in severe psychosis."
Matt studied the photo again, his jaw tightening. "There's no timestamp or location data attached."
"She doesn't need to provide it," I said. "She knows exactly where I'll go."
"Back to her house," Matt concluded, his expression grim. "Into what's almost certainly a trap."
"She's counting on my training, my instinct to protect an innocent child. She knows I'll come, regardless of the risk."
"Then we don't give her what she's expecting," Matt said. "There has to be another approach, one she won't anticipate."
As we sat down to plan our counter-strategy, I kept seeing Tommy's frightened eyes in my mind. Despite everything—the manhunt, the framing, my destroyed reputation—it was the terror in that child's face that crystallized my resolve. Sarah had studied my cases extensively, learned my methods, and analyzed my techniques. But she had miscalculated on one critical point: I had spent my entire career hunting predators who exploited the vulnerable.
And I had never failed to find them.
"She thinks she knows me," I said, checking the burner phone one last time before powering it off. "Let's show her how wrong she is."
Chapter 46
THEN:
Ann stared at the wall in the walk-in closet, which she always kept closed with a lock, and at the dozens of photographs of Marcus Hale. Her fingers traced the red strings that connected his patrol routes to her apartment, to the restaurant, to the places she had convinced herself he followed her. The strings vibrated slightly under her touch, as if still alive with the energy of her delusion. She had built this monument to her obsession meticulously, piece by piece, photograph by photograph. Now she would dismantle it with the same precision.
The first photograph came down with a soft pop as she removed the thumbtack. Marcus was exiting the police station, unaware of her presence across the street. She remembered taking this one—the satisfaction she'd felt capturing what she'd believed was evidence, the rush of vindication. Now the memory twisted in her stomach, acid and shame rising in equal measure. Ann placed the photo face down on her coffee table and reached for the next.
Marcus at the coffee shop. Marcus walking his GermanShepherd. Marcus pumping gas. Each image represented hours of surveillance, of watching, of waiting. Each was a testament not to his obsession with her, but hers with him. The wall began to empty, leaving behind a constellation of tiny holes in the plaster that mapped the geography of her delusion.
Her fingers trembled as she untied the red strings, rolling them into a neat ball out of habit before forcing herself to throw it into the growing pile of evidence. The maps came down next—his patrol routes highlighted in yellow, his apartment building floor plan marked with his unit number, the streets between her apartment and his tracked with time notations for optimal surveillance.
