Chapter 17
Matt's return announced itself by the subtle change in air pressure as the side door opened and closed.
When his familiar silhouette appeared in the dim light, I exhaled slowly.
He carried our black backpack, bulging with supplies.
His sneakers squeaked against the concrete as he crossed the space between us, each footfall a scream in the warehouse's cavernous silence.
"Anyone follow you?" I asked, the question automatic after days of constant vigilance.
Matt shook his head, setting the backpack down carefully. He glanced at the phone on the floor beside me. "Find anything?"
"Collins filed a restraining order six months ago. Details are sealed, but it’s something that could be interesting." I slid the phone into my pocket and stood, wincing as the movement pulled at the cut along my ribs.
Matt noticed, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Let's take care of that first." He unzipped the backpack, revealing a surprisingly comprehensive collection of supplies—bottled water, energy bars, and a first aid kit.
He gestured toward my side. "Let me see."
I lifted the edge of my shirt, revealing the angry red line that curved along my ribs. Not deep enough to need stitches, but the edges were inflamed, and dirt from the motel window was embedded in the wound.
Matt cleaned it with gentle efficiency, his touch clinical yet intimate in a way that spoke to our years together.
As he applied antibiotic ointment and a clean bandage, I studied his face—the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw, the absolute focus he gave to the task at hand.
Even now, hunted and desperate, he remained solid and dependable—my anchor in a storm that threatened to drown us both.
"Thanks," I said simply when he finished, pulling my shirt back down.
He then reached into his bag for his laptop and dragged an overturned wooden crate to serve as a makeshift desk.
He positioned another crate beside it as a seat, then opened the laptop.
The screen's blue glow illuminated his face from below as he typed in passwords and connected to a network through multiple VPN layers.
"I’m downloading recent Tampa Bay newspaper archives," he explained. "I’m focusing on unsolved homicides from the past year. I thought there might be a connection to what's happening now."
I moved my crate closer, shoulder pressed against his as we hunched over the screen.
The contact grounded me, a physical reminder that despite everything, I wasn't facing this alone.
Matt opened the first article—a three-month-old report about a corporate lawyer found strangled in his downtown office.
Nothing about the case resonated with our current situation.
We moved through the files methodically, examining crime scene photos when available, analyzing police statements, and reading between the lines of carefully worded press releases.
My trained eye picked up details the reporters had missed—blood spatter patterns that contradicted official theories, body positioning that suggested staging rather than natural falling, wound patterns that told stories about the killers' emotional states during the attacks.
The fifth file stopped me cold. A man in his fifties was found beaten in his home six weeks ago.
The official report cited robbery as the motive, but the crime scene photos showed something different.
The violence had been excessive, frenzied.
Yet the unconscious body had been carefully arranged afterward, hands folded across the chest, face cleaned of blood.
The man had survived, but barely. He claimed he didn’t see his attacker, that he didn’t remember anything from the attack.
"That's Reeves," I said, tapping the screen. "Victor Reeves' signature."
Matt zoomed in on a particular photo showing the victim's bedroom. "Excessive violence followed by carefully arranging the beaten-up victim. You're right." His fingers moved across the keyboard, opening another file. "And there's something else you should see."
The new document was a prison release record dated four months ago. Victor Reeves was released on parole after serving three years of a five-year sentence for aggravated assault—current address listed in Tampa.
"He's been out for months," I murmured, the timeline arranging itself in my mind.
"The Collector," Matt said, using the nickname Reeves had earned. "You think he’s still keeping his newspaper clippings of crime scenes?"
"Definitely, and nursing a grudge." I leaned back, memories surfacing from the case that had put Reeves away. "I was the one who built the profile that led to his arrest. He threatened me during the trial, said I'd regret the day I crossed his path." I shook my head, fragments connecting.
The warehouse had grown darker as we worked, the shafts of light from the broken skylights fading as evening approached.
Now only the laptop's glow illuminated our faces, casting harsh shadows that emphasized the exhaustion etched into our features.
The vast space around us seemed to grow larger in the darkness, our small pool of light a fragile barrier against the encroaching night.
"You said you saw him at the motel?" Matt asked, his voice lower as if the darkness demanded quiet.
"Yes. Standing under a streetlamp, watching us escape." The image remained vivid in my mind—Reeves' broad shoulders, military stance, and that distinctive silver ring catching the light. "He wanted me to see him. It was deliberate."
"A message," Matt agreed, closing one file and opening another. "But what's he trying to tell you?"
I stared at the screen, at the crime scene photos of victims whose deaths mirrored the excessive violence of Reeves' signature style. "That he's coming for me. That he wants me to know it." I rubbed my eyes, fighting fatigue.
Matt's fingers stilled on the keyboard. The laptop's battery indicator blinked a warning—twenty percent remaining. Another resource with limited time.
"Let's focus on what we know for certain," he said, opening yet another file. "Reeves is out. He's in Tampa. He has a history with you. And he was watching us escape." His eyes met mine, the blue glow from the screen reflecting in them like cold fire.
I nodded, leaning closer to the screen as Matt pulled up more files. The darkness pressed against our backs as we worked, two fugitives hunched over digital breadcrumbs, searching for the path that would lead us back to truth—and freedom.
Complete darkness had claimed the warehouse by the time Matt closed the laptop, the battery finally surrendering after hours of use.
I lit the small emergency candle from our supplies, its flame casting our shadows in giant, distorted versions against the walls.
The sudden absence of the screen's glow left an afterimage on my retinas—crime scene photos, prison records, and newspaper headlines, all bleeding together in a grotesque collage.
I rubbed my eyes, fighting the fatigue that threatened to cloud my judgment when I needed it most. That was when Matt cleared his throat in the particular way he did before delivering news he knew I wouldn't like.
"I've arranged another meeting with Juan Ramirez," he said, his voice steady but cautious. "Since we couldn’t make it today. Tomorrow morning, seven a.m."
I looked at him. “Are we sure that’s safe?”
“It’s our only option right now. We have to at least try.”