The broadcast switched to a studio anchor, her name appearing in bold white letters across the bottom of the screen.
"Sarah Winters," she murmured, fingertip tracing the name in the condensation of her water glass. "That’s perfect."
Chapter 47
The motel roomwalls seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, closing in tighter with every passing minute. I couldn't stop staring at Tommy's frightened face on the burner phone screen, the bruise on his cheek a violent splash against his pale skin. Sarah had crossed a line I hadn't anticipated—using her own child as bait. The calculated cruelty of it churned my stomach, even as the analytical part of my brain admired the tactical precision. She knew exactly which button to push to force my hand.
"We need a different approach," I said, resuming my pacing across the worn carpet. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back—the limited geography of our temporary prison.
Matt sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as he adjusted his position to accommodate his injured ribs. The makeshift bandage we'd applied was holding, but the strain showed in the tightness around his eyes.
"Eva Rae, you know this is a trap," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "She's manipulating you with the one thing she knows you can't ignore." He gestured toward the television, muted but still broadcasting my face next to the word "MANHUNT" in angry redletters. "Your face is plastered across every screen in Florida. You step outside, someone will recognize you."
I stopped pacing long enough to give him a hard look. "Rule Seven of The Profiler's Code, Matt. 'Truth before badge.' The ultimate loyalty is to finding the truth, even when it conflicts with official positions." I tapped the phone screen where Tommy's frightened eyes stared back at me. "And the truth is there's an innocent child caught in the middle of this."
"That's not how that rule was meant to be applied," Matt countered, shifting again with a barely suppressed groan. "It's about not letting departmental politics interfere with investigations, not charging headfirst into an obvious trap."
"Then how about the unwritten rule? The one that says we protect innocents, regardless of personal cost." I resumed pacing, the thin carpet offering minimal cushion against the concrete subfloor. "Tommy didn't ask for any of this. He's a victim of his mother's delusion as much as we are."
Matt pushed himself to his feet, moving to block my path. His face was pale with pain but determined. "And how exactly do you plan to protect him if you're dead or in custody? Sarah has orchestrated three murders, framed you perfectly for each one, and nearly killed us at the boathouse. She's not suddenly going to make a convenient mistake.
"She already has," I insisted, sidestepping him to continue my circuit of the room. "Using Tommy this way shows she's desperate. Her plan is unraveling."
"Or it's exactly what she planned all along—forcing you into the open by exploiting your protective instincts." Matt followed me with his eyes as I moved. "That's what makes it such an effective trap. She studied you enough to know you'd never ignore a child in danger, even at the cost of your own safety."
I stopped at the grimy window, peering through a crack in the curtains at the parking lot beyond. Afternoon sun glinted off windshields, creating miniature beacons in the asphalt expanse. Somewhere out there, a nine-year-old boy was living in terror of his own mother, witnessing her descent into murderous obsession.
"What would you have me do?" I asked, turning back to Matt. "Ignore him? Let her do God knows what while we hide in this room?"
"I want you to think like the FBI profiler you are, not like—" He cut himself off, but I heard the unspoken words anyway.
"Not like a mother?" I finished, my voice sharper than intended. "Is that what you were going to say?"
Matt's expression softened. "Not like someone personally invested. You taught me that emotional distance is crucial to clear thinking in cases like this."
"Rule Three," I acknowledged. "'Maintain emotional distance.' A profiler who becomes emotionally invested loses objectivity and risks missing crucial details."
"Exactly."
"But I've already broken that rule, Matt. The moment Sarah made this about us—about you and me—objectivity went out the window." I gestured at the bandage visible beneath his shirt. "We're both bleeding from this case. Literally."
The burner phone rang before he could respond, its harsh electronic tone shattering our standoff. Juan Ramirez's number flashed on the screen. Matt and I exchanged a look—Juan was our only remaining lifeline to the outside world.
I answered, putting the call on speaker. "Go ahead, Juan."
"She's got company." Juan's voice came through with uncharacteristic urgency, background noise suggesting he was calling from inside a vehicle. "I've been watching the house since dawn. The place is now packed with police. I think they’re waiting for you, expecting you to come there. She probably told them you would."
My eyes met Matt's across the room. "What about Tommy?"
"I don’t know. He could be in there with her.”
Matt moved closer to the phone. "She could be hurting him right in front of the police?"
"Stay on her," I instructed. "But maintain distance. She's proven more resourceful than we anticipated."
"Copy that." Juan's voice dropped lower. "Be careful, Eva Rae.Whatever's happening with her, it's accelerating." The line went dead.
I looked at Matt. “What do we do? We have to get inside that house and save Tommy before it’s too late.”
