Sarah turned toward Tommy, her movements suddenly fluid and purposeful. The gun hung at her side as she crossed the bathroom in three long strides.
Sarah grabbed the phone and hung up.
I tried to push myself upright, to call out a warning, but my voice emerged as little more than a wet gurgle as blood filled my throat. My vision narrowed to a tunnel that framed the scene before me with terrible clarity. I heard the front door getting kicked in and Matt’s voice calling my name.
The silence that followed seemed to press against my eardrums with physical weight. Tommy's quiet sobbing provided the only soundtrack to Sarah's heavy breathing as she stood over him, the gun now trained on his small, trembling form.
"No one interrupts my ending," she said, her voice oddly calm after the violence that had preceded it. "No one ruins what I've written."
I forced my eyes to remain open despite the darkness creeping infrom the edges of my vision. Tommy's gaze found mine across the blood-smeared floor, his expression a heartbreaking mixture of terror and apology—as if he'd failed somehow by not completing the call, by not saving us both.
I tried to communicate with my eyes what my failing body could not express in words: You did everything right. You were so brave. Don't give up.
Outside, the faint wail of distant sirens carried through the cabin's thin walls—so far away, but growing closer. Tommy had succeeded after all. Help was coming. Matt was in the cabin with Juan, and I had managed to scream for his help.
The question was whether any of us would still be alive when it arrived.
Chapter 56
Consciousness came in waves,each one carrying me briefly to the surface before pulling me back into darkness. Fragments of reality washed over me—harsh fluorescent lights blurring above, the antiseptic smell of hospital disinfectant, the rhythmic beeping of machines monitoring my tenuous hold on life. Voices floated around me, urgent but distant, as if filtering through water. "Blood pressure dropping." "Push another unit." "We're losing her." I tried to speak, to tell them I was still here, still fighting, but my body remained disconnected from my will, a broken vessel that could no longer contain the commands of my mind.
Time lost meaning. Each surfacing felt like breaking through ice into painful awareness, each submersion a relief from the brutal reality of what my body had endured. Two gunshot wounds. Blood loss so severe that twice I heard someone whisper, "I don't know how she's still with us."
During one brief period of clarity, I became aware of pressure around my hand—warm, strong fingers intertwined with mine. Matt's voice cut through the medical jargon surrounding me, his tone brooking no argument.
"I'm not leaving her."
"Sir, you need treatment yourself?—"
"Treat me here or don't treat me at all." The pressure on my hand increased slightly. "I'm not leaving this room."
I tried to squeeze back, to let him know I felt his presence, but my body remained stubbornly unresponsive. The darkness pulled me under again, this time dragging me deeper than before.
When I next surfaced, the urgent activity had subsided. The lights seemed dimmer, the voices quieter. Night had fallen, or perhaps they had simply moved me to a different room. Matt's presence remained constant, his hand still wrapped around mine, his breathing slow and measured beside me. Beyond the door to my room, another voice filtered through—Juan's, his tone steady and professional as he spoke with someone in the hallway.
"The journal contains explicit confessions to all three murders," he was saying. "Detailed accounts of how she killed three people. The planning, the execution, the evidence planting—everything."
"And the frame-up of Agent Thomas?" A voice I didn't recognize, probably a detective.
"Meticulously documented. Sarah Winters studied Eva Rae for years. Created an elaborate shrine in her home with surveillance photos dating back five years. The forensic team found Eva Rae's DNA throughout the house—hair samples, fingerprints—all collected and stored for later planting at crime scenes."
“We found the body of Victor Reeves,” the detective said. “In the boat house. You said earlier in a statement that was her as well?”
“Yes, he worked for her as far as I have been told. Then he decided to help them instead, and he saved both their lives but lost his own.”
The conversation drifted beyond my hearing as another wave of darkness approached. This time, I didn't fight it, allowing myself to sink beneath its surface with the comforting knowledge that evidence of my innocence had survived.
The next emergence brought television sounds—a news anchor's professionally modulated voice penetrating my semiconscious state.
"…raising serious questions about whether former FBI agent Eva Rae Thomas was wrongfully accused. Sources close to the investigation reveal that Sarah Winters, the local bookstore owner now in custody, may have orchestrated an elaborate frame-up targeting Thomas. Police have recovered evidence suggesting Winters committed the murders herself while methodically building a case against Thomas…."
Matt's voice cut through the broadcast. "Turn it off. She needs quiet."
The sound disappeared, replaced by the steady beep of my heart monitor and the soft hiss of oxygen flowing through a tube beneath my nose. I drifted again, this time surfacing to catch fragments of a gentle conversation from somewhere nearby.
Matt's face swam into focus above me, haggard with exhaustion, his eyes ringed with dark circles. Butterfly bandages held together a gash on his forehead. When he saw my eyes open, his expression transformed—relief washing away the worry, if only for a moment.
"Hey," he whispered, leaning closer. "There you are."
