Chapter 29
The boathouse creaked around us, timbers groaning with each gentle rock of the water beneath.
We'd fled Sarah's perfect suburban prison before dawn, slipping out through the kitchen door while she and Tommy slept.
Now, six hours later, the stench of mildew and fish guts permeated our new sanctuary—an abandoned structure jutting over the murky waters of Copper Bay, far enough from the main channels that casual boaters wouldn't notice us.
Matt was reading the news on his burner phone. His prosthetic leg was propped beside him, giving his residual limb a break after our rushed escape and subsequent hours of searching for a safe location.
Our temporary home was little more than a forgotten fisherman's shelter—rotting floorboards, a partially collapsed roof patched with blue tarp, and the skeletal remains of rod holders mounted to walls that listed dangerously toward the water.
We'd pushed moldering crates and broken equipment against one wall to create a small living space, our few belongings arranged with the careful precision of people accustomed to quick departures. Matt played a video.
"Turn it up," I whispered, leaning forward on the overturned bait bucket that served as my seat. The news anchor's mouth moved silently for a moment before Matt found the volume control.
"—breaking news tonight in what police are now calling a pattern of violent murders across Tampa Bay.
" The anchor's voice emerged from the phone’s speaker, his professionally concerned expression giving way to a field reporter standing in front of crime scene tape, red and blue lights pulsing in the background.
"We go live to Melissa Chen at the scene downtown. "
The reporter's face filled the screen, her expression appropriately somber as wind whipped her hair.
"Thank you, Jack. I'm standing just outside the police perimeter where the body of a woman in her forties was discovered less than three hours ago in what authorities are describing as a methodical, execution-style murder with disturbing similarities to the killing of Richard Collins last week. "
My breath caught as the screen changed to show the cordoned-off area.
Even with the camera keeping a respectful distance, I could make out the chalk outline on the pavement.
A sheet-covered form lay at the center of the activity, partially visible as crime scene technicians worked methodically around it.
"Jesus," Matt breathed, his hand reaching instinctively for mine. "This happened right downtown."
The reporter continued, her voice taking on the hushed tone reserved for particularly gruesome details.
"Sources close to the investigation tell us that, like Richard Collins, the victim was shot twice in the back with a .
38 caliber weapon. However, what makes this case particularly disturbing is that a note was found pinned to the victim's clothing. "
The screen showed a blurred image of what appeared to be a piece of paper that was hard to read. But I could make out what looked like my name at the top.
"While police have not released the contents of the note, our sources confirm it was a letter from former FBI agent Eva Rae Thomas, the prime suspect in both murders."
My face appeared on screen—my official FBI photograph from years ago, looking confident and professional in my Bureau jacket.
The image dissolved into a more recent shot from my book jacket, then a grainy surveillance photo that must have been taken in the past week.
The collection of images created a visual progression, transforming me from a respected law enforcement officer to a fugitive.
"This is—" I began, but the words died in my throat as the broadcast continued.
"Police are now openly referring to these killings as the work of a serial offender," the reporter said, her expression grave. "Tampa PD has upgraded their advisory, warning that Thomas should be considered armed and extremely dangerous."
Matt cursed under his breath, his fingers tightening around mine as the anchor reappeared, looking directly into the camera.
"If you're just joining us, we have breaking news on what police are now calling the 'Profiler Murders.
' A second victim has been found, and authorities believe former FBI profiler Eva Rae Thomas is responsible for both killings. "
The screen split to show my photograph alongside the crime scene. The juxtaposition made my stomach turn—my face and the shrouded body, linked forever in viewers' minds. The banner across the bottom read: "MANHUNT INTENSIFIES: FORMER FBI PROFILER SUSPECTED IN SERIAL KILLINGS."
"I’m being framed for another murder," I whispered, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
The analytical part of my brain—the part trained through decades of FBI work—continued functioning despite the horror washing over me.
"She's escalating, creating a pattern that fits the profile of a serial killer. "
Matt’s phone rang. He checked the display before answering. "I recognize the number. It’s Juan," he acknowledged, his voice low as he put the call on speaker.
"Are you watching the news?" Juan Ramirez's voice crackled through the small speaker, tension evident even through the poor connection.
"We are," Matt confirmed, his eyes never leaving my face.
"It's worse than what they're reporting," Juan said. "The victim was shot twice from behind, just like Collins, but this time there was obvious staging of the body. And the note—" he paused, the silence heavy with implication.
"They're calling you a serial killer now," Juan continued, his voice tense. "Every cop in three counties is looking for you. The FBI has been officially called in. I've never seen a manhunt of this magnitude."
“Well, technically, you have to have killed three people to be called that, but who’s counting?” I said.
I opened my own phone and went through the news channels.
Each showed variations of the same coverage—my face splashed across the screen with warnings about my dangerous nature, experts speculating about my "psychological break," talking heads discussing my FBI career as if searching for signs of instability that had been there all along.
"They've created a task force," Juan added. "The director held a press conference an hour ago. Your former colleagues are leading the manhunt, Eva Rae."
I closed my eyes briefly, imagining the faces of agents I'd trained, worked alongside, and trusted with my life—now hunting me like an animal.
When I opened them again, the television showed split-screen coverage: the crime scene on one side, and on the other, a photograph of me with my daughter at her high school graduation three years ago.
The image had been cropped to isolate me, my smile now recontextualized as something sinister.
The water lapped gently against the pilings beneath us, the boathouse shifting with each wave. Like my former life, it was a structure on the verge of collapse, held together by nothing more than stubborn determination and increasingly fragile connections to solid ground.