Chapter 25
The flash drive felt like a loaded weapon in my pocket as Matt guided our newly "borrowed" sedan through the winding streets of Oakridge Estates.
Sarah Winters lived in a neighborhood of manicured lawns and flowering crepe myrtles, where mailboxes matched front doors, and children's bicycles lay trustingly unattended in driveways.
The suburban perfection made my skin crawl.
"Number thirty-four," Matt murmured, slowing as we approached a cheerful yellow two-story colonial with white shutters and a wrap-around porch.
The house looked like it belonged in a real estate magazine—hanging baskets of ferns flanking the entrance, stepping stones leading through a perfectly edged lawn, and not a weed in sight.
"Remember," I said, my voice low, "we're here for information, not confrontation. We play along until we understand exactly what her role is in this."
Matt nodded, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "Just two friends seeking refuge with someone they trust." His voice carried the weight of irony.
As we pulled into the driveway, I spotted a small figure crouched in the front yard—a boy of about nine, dark-haired and slender, pushing toy cars through the grass with sound effects that carried through the open car windows.
Tommy Winters. I'd never met Sarah's son at my book signing at her store, but I knew she had one.
She had told me she adopted him two years ago.
His parents had died in a car accident, leaving him in the foster system.
The front door opened before we even stepped from the car.
Sarah stood framed in the doorway, one hand raised in greeting, the other balancing a plate of what appeared to be freshly baked cookies.
Her casual attire—jeans and a light-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up—projected a sense of relaxed domesticity.
Her smile stretched wide across her face, revealing perfectly straight teeth.
"Eva! Matt! Thank goodness you're okay!" Her voice carried the precise notes of concern and relief that someone would expect.
Too precise. Too practiced. She rushed down the steps toward us as we exited the car, the plate of cookies balanced carefully in her hand.
The scent of vanilla and brown sugar wafted toward us.
"I've been so worried." She enveloped me in a hug, her free arm squeezing me with what felt like genuine emotion.
I forced myself to return the embrace, my body stiff despite my best efforts to appear natural.
Over Sarah's shoulder, I watched Tommy look up briefly from his cars before returning to his play, apparently accustomed to his mother's visitors.
"We didn't know where else to go," I said, the lie coming easily as I stepped back from her embrace. "Things have escalated, and we needed somewhere safe."
"Of course, of course," Sarah replied, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. "You can stay as long as you need to." She turned toward her son. "Tommy, say hello to Ms. Thomas and Mr. Miller."
The boy stood, dutifully wiping grass from his knees. "Hello," he said with the automatic politeness of a well-trained child. His eyes assessed us with quiet intelligence before he returned to his cars, apparently dismissing us as uninteresting adult concerns.
Sarah ushered us inside, her hand pressing lightly against my back in a gesture that seemed both comforting and controlling.
The interior of her home continued the theme of magazine-perfect domesticity—gleaming hardwood floors, coordinated furniture that managed to look both stylish and lived-in, family photos arranged in matching frames along the staircase wall.
"Let's get you both some coffee," Sarah said, leading us toward the kitchen. "You must be exhausted." Her movements were graceful and efficient as she navigated her space, the plate of cookies never tilting despite her animated gestures.
The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel appliances and white marble countertops.
Copper pots hung in precise gradations above a professional-grade range.
Everything was immaculate—no dirty dishes in the sink, no mail scattered on countertops, no magnets cluttering the refrigerator.
The perfection felt deliberate, staged rather than lived-in.
"Cream and sugar?" Sarah asked, already reaching for matching ceramic mugs from a cabinet. "Or do you still take it black with just a touch of cinnamon, Eva?" She smiled over her shoulder, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I remember from your book signing."
"That's right," I replied, filing away this demonstration of her attention to detail. "Good memory."
"I pay attention to people I admire," she said, her back turned as she prepared the coffee.
While she worked, I noticed her phone on the counter, screen facing down.
As she set out cream and sugar for Matt, her fingers brushed against the device, turning it slightly to check for notifications.
The gesture was subtle, almost unconscious, but repeated twice more as she poured coffee and arranged cookies on a serving plate.
"This is quite a home you have," Matt commented, his tone conversational as he accepted his mug. His eyes, I noticed, were methodically scanning the kitchen, taking in exits, sightlines, potential weapons or threats—the same assessment I was conducting.
"Tommy and I love it here," Sarah replied, bringing her own coffee to the table and gesturing for us to sit. "When I adopted Tommy, I moved us here. I wanted somewhere that felt…" she paused, selecting her word with care, "…secure."
A small sound from outside—a car door closing down the street—caused her to stiffen momentarily, her gaze darting toward the window before returning to us with a forced smile. Her reaction seemed disproportionate, a hairline crack in her composed facade.
"So," she said, pushing the plate of cookies toward us, "tell me everything. The news is saying awful things about you, Eva. I've been sick with worry."
I took a cookie I had no intention of eating, buying time to formulate my response. "It's been a nightmare," I admitted, allowing genuine emotion to color my voice. "Someone planted Collins' body in my trunk, and now they're systematically destroying my reputation and credibility."
"Oh, Eva." Sarah reached across the table to squeeze my hand, her skin cool against mine. "Who would do such a thing?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Matt interjected, his tone measured. "Eva Rae has made enemies over the years, working for the Bureau. But this feels personal."
Sarah nodded sympathetically, releasing my hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let's move to the living room," she suggested. "It's more comfortable for talking."
The living room continued the theme of calculated comfort—plush sofas arranged for conversation, books artfully displayed on built-in shelves, family photos capturing Sarah and Tommy in moments of orchestrated happiness. No husband or partner appeared in any of the frames I could see.
"I was telling Matt about Richard Collins," I said once we were seated, launching the conversational probe we'd planned in the car. "We're trying to understand why he was targeted, who might have wanted him dead."
Sarah's expression remained sympathetic and attentive. "Such a horrible crime," she murmured.
"The strange thing is," I continued, watching her face carefully, "we discovered he was investigating financial irregularities at his firm. He seemed to be building a case against someone."
"That sounds dangerous," Sarah replied, her fingers curling more tightly around her mug. "I knew Richard pretty well. Like I told you, he was a regular at my bookstore."
“But you knew him as more than that, am I right?” I asked. “What was the nature of your relationship?”
Before Sarah could respond, the front door banged open, and Tommy raced in, his cheeks flushed with exertion. "Mom, I'm hungry," he announced, stopping short when he noticed we were still in conversation.
"Tommy, what have I told you about interrupting?" Sarah's voice remained pleasant, but something shifted in her eyes—a sudden intensity that seemed disproportionate to the minor social transgression. She stared at her son with a focus that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
"Sorry," Tommy mumbled, backing away slightly under his mother's gaze.
"It's fine, sweetheart," Sarah said, her expression softening as quickly as it had hardened. "Get an apple from the fruit bowl. We'll have dinner soon."
I watched the interaction with practiced observation, noting how Tommy's shoulders relaxed only after he'd left the room, how Sarah's eyes tracked him with an ownership that went beyond maternal concern.
Sarah turned back to us, her smile firmly in place once more. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes, Richard. Such a terrible shame what happened to him. He had such a keen mind for patterns and inconsistencies."
I leaned forward slightly, maintaining eye contact. "Sarah, how well did you know Richard Collins?"
Her smile never faltered. "Well enough to know he deserved better than what happened to him," she replied, her voice smooth as glass. "Don't you agree?"
The question hung between us, charged with unspoken meaning as we regarded each other across the coffee table. Sarah's expression remained open and friendly—but her eyes were calculating, measuring my response with an intensity that belied her casual posture.
“Do stay for dinner, please. It would make me so happy.”
I nodded. We could use a home-cooked meal right about now, and what was cooking in the kitchen smelled divine. I watched her as she got up with a smile.
“I’ll need to stir the sauce. Please excuse me.”
She was the perfect hostess in her perfect home, serving cookies with one hand while possibly reporting my whereabouts to the police with the other. I took a sip of coffee, buying time as I considered my next move in this dangerous game of chess we were playing.