Chapter 9
The memory dissolved as I snapped back to the present, my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms. The Paradise Bay Motel room materialized around me in all its depressing glory—water stains spreading across the ceiling like disease, thin curtains that let the neon sign outside pulse through in sickly red intervals, and the ever-present smell of industrial cleaner failing to mask decades of cigarettes and desperation.
I resumed pacing the five steps the narrow room allowed, wearing an invisible trench between the bathroom door and the foot of the sagging bed, where Matt sat, watching me with concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
On the day of the escape, I grabbed our bags from the back seat, then left the car in an alley behind the mall before running to Matt, who was waiting for me at the entrance to Macy’s.
After explaining to him what had happened, he had abandoned all the gifts for the kids and stopped a passing car using his badge.
He then asked the driver for his vehicle for police matters, and as the driver got out, we took his car and drove off.
"Richard Collins," I said, the name still unfamiliar on my tongue despite having repeated it dozens of times since learning the victim's identity.
"Fifty-five years old. Accountant at Meridian Financial.
Divorced, no children. No criminal record.
Not even a parking ticket." I ran my fingers through my unwashed hair, wincing as they caught in tangles.
"I've never met him, never heard of him, never worked a case connected to him.
There is absolutely no reason why his body should have been in my trunk. "
Matt shifted on the bed, the ancient springs protesting beneath his weight.
His prosthetic leg was propped against the nightstand, and he massaged his residual limb absentmindedly—a habit when he was deep in thought.
The day's stubble darkened his jaw, making the scar above his right eyebrow stand out in stark relief.
"Rule Four," he said quietly.
I stopped pacing, my shoulders tensing at the reference. The Profiler's Code had been my professional bible for years. Now it seemed to be mocking me.
"The innocent run differently," I recited mechanically.
"Those falsely accused behave distinctively from the guilty; they seek to prove innocence rather than merely escape consequences.
" A bitter laugh escaped me. "And here I am, running.
Making myself look guilty with every mile I put between myself and that crime scene. "
Matt's gaze was steady and analytical without judgment. "You made a split-second decision based on your instincts. Those same instincts have solved dozens of cases that stumped everyone else. I trust them."
A cockroach scuttled across the baseboard and disappeared behind the ancient television stand.
The ice machine down the hall groaned and clattered, the sound carrying through paper-thin walls.
Somewhere nearby, a couple was arguing in hushed, intense tones—the words indistinct but the emotion unmistakable.
"My instincts are telling me this is methodical," I said, resuming my pacing.
"Someone chose Collins specifically. Someone put him in my trunk knowing I'd be pulled over.
" I stopped, a new thought forming. "That taillight—I checked all the lights last week.
Someone tampered with our car to ensure I'd be stopped. "
"That's a lot of variables to control," Matt observed, leaning forward.
I sank onto the edge of the bed beside Matt, suddenly exhausted. Three days of running, three days of barely sleeping, the constant hypervigilance wearing me down to raw nerves and bone-deep fatigue.
The TV was still on, but muted. The news wheel returned to my story.
The headline scrolled beneath: "Manhunt Intensifies for Former FBI Profiler Eva Rae Thomas.
" I turned on the volume just to hear the reporter then detailing my "violent escape" from the traffic stop, the "premeditated murder" of Richard Collins.
Every word twisted reality into a darkly distorted version of events.
Beneath it, another headline announced the reward for information leading to my capture had doubled.
"They're making me sound like a dangerous criminal," I whispered, my stomach turning. "Like I've completely lost control."
Matt took the remote from my trembling hands, then muted the TV again. "Which means whoever is framing you knows what they’re doing."
"But why?" I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to think through the exhaustion. "Why me? Why Collins? There has to be a connection I'm not seeing."
"We need more information on Collins," Matt said, his detective's mind already plotting investigation angles. "Bank records, phone records, recent contacts. Something that connects him to whoever is setting you up."
I nodded, my thoughts aligning with his. "We need resources we don't have—access to databases and contacts who can run searches without triggering alerts." I sighed, letting my hands drop to my lap. "We need help. We need allies."
“That’s why we’re meeting Juan tomorrow,” he said. “He can help us get all the info on Collins.”
“We need more than one,” I said. “In case Juan can’t be trusted. I don’t have a good feeling about him. He’s shady.”
The neon sign outside flashed, painting the room briefly in crimson before plunging it back into shadow. The rhythmic pulse reminded me of emergency lights, of the moment my life had shattered three days ago.
"Sarah Winters," I said suddenly, sitting straighter.
Matt's eyebrows rose slightly. "The bookstore owner? How would she help us?"
"I don’t know, but she’s the one who invited me here and arranged the event. She’s a big fan of mine. Maybe she’ll believe me when I say I’m innocent? I can’t think of anyone else who would."
Matt considered this, his expression cautious. "Reaching out to anyone right now is risky. You don't know who you can trust."
"I don't need to trust her with everything. Just enough to get information about Collins." I reached for my jacket—a nondescript hoodie borrowed from Matt that hung loose on my frame. "She gave me her personal number. Said I could come by the store any time if I wanted to browse after hours."
Matt watched me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he measured the risk against our dwindling options. "And you think she won't immediately call the police when a fugitive shows up at her door?"
I hesitated, remembering Sarah's warm smile, her enthusiastic questions about my profiling work, her obvious admiration. "She's fascinated by criminal psychology. She was talking about how the system fails people, how false convictions happen. If anyone might listen before judging, it's her."
Matt reached for his prosthetic, strapping it on with practiced movements. "Then we go together. If she seems suspicious, we leave immediately."
I nodded, already mentally mapping the least conspicuous route to downtown Tampa. As I gathered my purse and burner phone, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror—a stranger staring back at me with haunted eyes and desperate determination. The woman in the mirror looked guilty, looked hunted.
Looked exactly like the fugitive they were claiming I was.