Chapter 14
The truck lurched forward as Matt pushed it beyond its aging engine's comfort zone.
I twisted in my seat, looking back at the motel through the cracked side mirror.
Police flashlights bounced like fireflies in the darkness as officers scattered to their vehicles to begin the pursuit.
But it wasn't the police that caught my attention.
Standing under a streetlamp at the edge of the property was a figure I recognized immediately—broad shoulders, military stance, and the distinctive glint of a silver ring on his right hand.
Victor Reeves.
The man who collected newspaper clippings of violent crimes, like some people collected stamps. The man whose restraining orders I'd studied during my last major FBI investigation before everything fell apart. What was he doing here?
"We've got company besides the police," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. "Victor Reeves is back there watching."
Matt's hands gripped the steering wheel harder, knuckles whitening. "The security contractor? The one with the temper?"
"And the collection of crime scene photos. Yes." The image of Reeves standing motionless under the harsh glow of the streetlamp burned in my mind. He hadn't been trying to hide. If anything, he'd positioned himself to be seen.
The silver snake ring on his finger had caught the light as he'd watched us flee—the same ring that had left distinctive bruising patterns on three different women who'd filed restraining orders against him.
During the investigation years ago, I'd noted his meticulous collection of newspaper clippings detailing violent crimes, stored in labeled binders in his apartment.
"Research," he'd called it. Among law enforcement, he was nicknamed "The Collector" for his disturbing hobby.
Matt drove with controlled aggression, taking sharp turns down unlit back roads, cutting through an abandoned parking lot, doubling back along a service road behind a row of warehouses.
The truck's suspension protested each maneuver, metal groaning beneath us.
My fingers gripped the cracked vinyl of the dashboard as we bounced through a pothole deep enough to lift us from our seats momentarily.
"Trying to break any pattern," Matt explained unnecessarily. "If anyone's following, they'll expect us to head straight out of town."
I nodded, dividing my attention between the side mirror and the road ahead. No headlights appeared behind us. No police sirens wailed in the distance. The quiet felt almost more threatening than pursuit.
The truck's headlights carved a narrow path through absolute darkness as Matt turned onto what appeared to be a logging road, trees pressing close on either side.
My body tensed with each curve, anticipating the flash of lights or the sudden appearance of a roadblock.
Twenty years of chasing suspects had taught me all the standard containment protocols.
Now those same protocols were being used against me.
Rule Three of The Profiler's Code echoed in my mind: Maintain emotional distance.
A profiler who becomes emotionally invested loses objectivity and risks missing crucial details.
I'd taught that rule to trainees and had lived by it during countless investigations.
How could I maintain emotional distance when I was the subject of the manhunt?
When every instinct for self-preservation screamed against the detachment my training demanded?
I forced myself to breathe deeply, to analyze rather than react. Victor Reeves had appeared too conveniently. His presence suggested either incredible luck or deliberate planning. Given everything else that had happened—the planted body, the taillight sabotage—luck seemed increasingly unlikely.
"Reeves fits the profile," I said, thinking aloud. "He has a history of violence, a fascination with crime scenes, and a grudge against me personally for the investigation and for putting him away."
My analytical mind continued dissecting possibilities even as my body betrayed me with physical responses to fear—elevated heart rate, cold sweat beading along my hairline, the slight tremor in my hands that I tried to hide by clenching them into fists.
I'd interviewed countless killers, had stared into the eyes of people who'd committed unspeakable acts, all without losing my professional composure.
But this was different. This time, I wasn't just the profiler. I was the prey.
Matt reached over, his right hand briefly squeezing mine before returning to the wheel.
The simple gesture of connection grounded me, pulling me back from the edge of my spiraling thoughts.
His face remained focused on the road ahead, but that momentary touch conveyed everything words couldn't—we were in this together, we would find a way through, we had each other when we had nothing else.
The truck climbed a gentle rise, its engine straining against the incline.
At the crest, Matt killed the headlights, and we continued in darkness, guided only by ambient moonlight filtering through the trees.
Below us, the twinkling lights of Tampa are now a place of danger.
Somewhere in that sprawl of light and shadow were answers—and people determined to stop us from finding them.
As we descended the far side of the rise, disappearing into the protective darkness of the forest, I thought about Victor Reeves standing under that streetlamp, his silver ring catching the light.
Had he been there as a participant in the frame against me, or as a messenger?
Either way, his presence confirmed what I'd already suspected—someone was watching our every move, anticipating our decisions, using my own profiling techniques against me.