Matt's expression was solemn in the harsh light. "There is no plan B, Eva. Not yet."
The truth hung between us, heavy and undeniable. We were running out of time, money, and options. Tomorrow's meeting with Juan might be our last chance.
Chapter 6
I waiteduntil Matt stepped into the shower before retrieving the burner phone from the bottom of my duffel bag. My fingers trembled slightly as I unwrapped it from the T-shirt I'd used to cushion it—one of only three phones we had left, each to be used once and then discarded. Three calls, three chances to hear my family's voices before we'd need to find another untraceable way to communicate.
Three days felt like a lifetime when you were running for your life, but it must have seemed even longer for the people waiting for news, for any sign that you were still alive.
I dialed my mother's number, the familiar sequence burned into my muscle memory despite the unfamiliar phone in my hand. Each ring felt like an eternity, my heart accelerating with each second of silence. What if they'd been questioned? What if their phones were being monitored? What if?—
"Hello?" A young voice answered, bright and slightly breathless.
Something in my chest cracked open. "Angel," I whispered, my daughter's name emerging like a prayer.
"Mom?" The word exploded with joy and relief. "Mom! Is that really you?"
"Hey, sweetie," I said, my voice softening instantly. Tearsgathered in my eyes, hot and insistent. I hadn't cried during the entire nightmare of the past three days—not when I'd seen my face plastered across news channels labeled as armed and dangerous, not even when I'd realized someone had constructed an elaborate frame designed to destroy my life. But the sound of my daughter's voice undid me completely.
"I miss you so much," Angel continued, words tumbling out in a rush. "When are you coming home? Grandma made lasagna yesterday, but it wasn't as good as yours, and I got an A on my vocabulary test and?—"
"Angel," I interrupted gently, "is Christine there?"
"Yeah, she's right here with the baby. Hold on."
I heard shuffling and muffled voices, someone saying, "Give me that," with gentle insistence. Then my older daughter's voice came through the line, controlled but tinged with worry.
"Mom? Where are you? Are you okay?"
I closed my eyes, picturing Christine's face—so much like my own at her age, but with a steadiness I'd never possessed. Being a single mom at only eighteen had given her a gravity I hadn't acquired until decades later, if ever.
"I'm okay," I reassured her, the lie coming easily for her sake. "How's it going with the baby? How’s my little Ellie?"
A brief hesitation, then she followed my lead into safer conversational territory. "She slept through the night for the first time," Christine said, her voice warming. "And she's so much fun now. She's starting to recognize faces, I think. She definitely knows when Grandma's holding her versus me."
I smiled despite everything, imagining my granddaughter's tiny face. Another piece of my heart that I couldn't be with right now. "That's wonderful," I managed, though the words felt hollow against the weight of my absence.
Christine's voice dropped lower, more serious. "How are you doing, Mom? I saw your face on the news again. What's happening? I've been so worried and tried to get ahold of you. But your phone goes directly to voicemail."
"I had to get rid of it," I explained, picturing the phone I'ddestroyed and abandoned in pieces across three different dumpsters in the Tampa Bay Area. "It wasn't safe."
"Mom." Her voice tightened with fear poorly disguised as frustration. "They're saying you killed a man. They showed your picture and everything. What's happening?"
I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, fighting for composure. How could I explain that someone had constructed an elaborate frame against me? That every piece of evidence pointing to my guilt had been meticulously fabricated? That I was running not because I was guilty, but because I knew I couldn't trust the system to uncover the truth?
"I didn't do what they're saying," I said finally, each word deliberate and clear. "I'm working to fix things and come home soon. I promise." My voice cracked on the last word. "I miss you so much."
"Are you still with Matt?" she asked, ever practical, ever concerned for my welfare even when I should be protecting hers.
"Yes."
"Good." A single word carrying layers of meaning—relief that I wasn't alone, approval of the person watching my back, acknowledgment that at least one thing in this nightmare made sense.
In the background, I heard my mother's voice calling something I couldn't make out, then Christine responding away from the phone. When she returned, urgency had entered her tone. "Mom, there are two men who keep driving by the house. Police, I think, but they never stop. They just… watch."
My stomach tightened. Of course, they would be monitoring my family. It was standard procedure for fugitive cases. I would have ordered the same surveillance myself when I was with the Bureau.
"Don't approach them," I instructed, slipping back into FBI mode. "Don't give them any reason to do more than observe. I'll contact you again when I can, but it might not be for a few days."
