Chapter 6
I waited until 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.
Tears gathered 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'd destroyed 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."
"Mom—"
"I love you," I said quickly. "Tell Alex, Elijah, Angel, and Grandma I love them too. And kiss that baby for me. And don’t tell Olivia what’s going on if she calls from college. It will only distract her, and she has midterms coming up. I don’t want her to worry, okay?"
“She already knows, Mom,” Christine said with a deep sigh. “You think she doesn’t watch TV?”
“I hoped she wouldn’t. Okay, then tell her I’m okay, and everything will be fine.”
“I don’t think she’ll buy that, but I’ll try.”
“Gotta go.”
I ended the call before my voice could betray me further, before I could make promises I wasn't certain I could keep. For several minutes, I remained seated on the edge of the bed, head bowed, the silent phone clutched in my hand like some talisman that could transport me back to my normal life.
The shower had stopped running, but Matt hadn't emerged. Giving me privacy, I realized, even in this cramped space where privacy was a luxury we could no longer afford.
The door hinges creaked as Matt pushed it open wider. He stood in the doorway, hair damp against his neck, saying nothing as he placed a hand on my shoulder. The simple weight of human connection nearly undid me again. I covered his hand with mine and squeezed once before straightening my spine.
"They're watching the house," I said, focusing on facts rather than feelings. "But everyone's safe for now."
Matt nodded, understanding everything I wasn't saying. We'd both been law enforcement long enough to know the playbook. Watch the family. Monitor communications. Wait for the fugitive to make contact. It was what I would have done.
Through the small bathroom window, a movement caught my eye. The elderly motel owner walked past our room, his gait slow but purposeful, his head turned toward our curtained window. Something about the deliberate nature of his path raised my internal alarms.
"That's the third time he's walked by in the last hour," Matt said, following my gaze.
I rose from the bed’s edge, slipping the phone into my pocket. Later, I'd disassemble it and dispose of the pieces separately, as we'd done with the others. For now, I needed to focus on the immediate threat.
"We need to be ready to move quickly if we have to," I said, wiping away the last traces of tears with the back of my hand. The vulnerability I'd allowed myself during the call vanished, replaced by the hypervigilance that had kept us alive these past three days.
I moved into the main room and began methodically repacking our few belongings. Matt mirrored my movements with practiced efficiency, our partnership requiring few words. We both knew we had to be ready, in case we needed to leave fast.
Outside, the motel owner passed by again, slower this time, his shadow briefly visible through the gap in the curtains.
"He made a call after we checked in," Matt said quietly, zipping his bag closed. "I couldn't hear what he said, but he kept looking out the window toward us, while he talked."
I nodded, processing this new information. "Could be nothing. Could be calling the cops. Either way, we must be ready."
The emotional warmth from hearing my family's voices still lingered somewhere deep in my chest, but I tucked it away, a luxury I couldn't afford right now. Later, when this was over—if this were ever over—I would allow myself to feel the full weight of what I stood to lose.
We had hours before our meeting with Juan Ramirez, hours we'd planned to use for much-needed rest. But rest, like privacy and safety, had become another casualty of this nightmare.