Chapter 30
Matt ended the call with Juan, the phone's screen going dark in his hand like a snuffed candle.
I stared at my own face on the news—a face now synonymous with murder in the minds of millions.
Outside, the wind picked up, sending ripples across the bay water and causing our fragile shelter to protest with creaks and groans.
Matt pushed himself to his feet, reattaching his prosthetic with quick, practiced movements before pacing the narrow confines of our hideout, his footsteps heavy on the weathered planks.
"We need to get as far away from Tampa as possible," he said, his voice tight with controlled urgency.
"North Carolina, maybe even further. Somewhere they won't be looking.
" He gestured toward the door. "Juan has contacts who can get us new identities.
We disappear, regroup, figure out our next move from somewhere safe. "
I remained seated, watching him move back and forth across the uneven floorboards.
Five steps one way, turn, five steps back—a caged tiger measuring the limits of his confinement.
The news anchor continued speaking, but I reached over and silenced him with a press of the button.
The sudden quiet amplified the sounds of our refuge—water slapping against the pilings, wind whistling through gaps in the walls, the distant call of a night bird somewhere along the shore.
"We can't leave," I said finally, my voice calm despite the storm of emotions beneath the surface. "Not yet."
Matt stopped pacing, turning to face me with disbelief etched across his features.
"Did you miss the part where every law enforcement officer in Florida is hunting for you?
Where they've just upgraded you from suspect to serial killer?
" He ran his hand through his hair— his tell when frustration threatened to overwhelm him.
"Rule One of The Profiler's Code," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily.
"Trust the evidence, not the narrative." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
"The narrative says I'm killing people execution-style and leaving notes.
The evidence—if we could access it—would tell a different story. "
"Eva—" he began, but I continued, my voice gathering strength as I spoke.
"Sarah Winters is behind this," I said, certainty hardening my tone. "She killed Collins. She killed this woman. She's systematically framing me, and if we run now, she wins. I'll never clear my name."
Matt's shoulders sagged slightly, his expression shifting from frustration to concern. "I know you think it's Sarah. And after what we saw in her house last night, I believe she's involved. But staying here is suicide."
I stood. "Think about it, Matt. Sarah knew Collins." I tapped the printed emails. "Someone was stalking him—someone whose writing exhibits classic erotomanic fixation patterns. Then he ends up dead the night after meeting with Sarah."
“Didn’t he get a restraining order against the stalker? Why would he meet with Sarah if she was the stalker?” he asked. “If he had a restraining order against her?”
“Maybe he got a restraining order against the wrong person?” I said. “Maybe because Sarah was using burner phones, he thought it was someone else? Maybe he thought he could trust Sarah, but he couldn’t.”
“And since he refused her advances, she murdered him. Yeah, that makes sense,” Matt said.
“In the mind of a very sick individual, it would.”
The boathouse creaked around us as I walked to the opposite wall, where we'd taped up photographs and notes—our own investigation board, pieced together from scraps of evidence we'd managed to gather.
"Remember when we first went on the run? When I'd just been accused of Collins' murder?" I turned to face Matt, watching realization dawn on his face. "Sarah said she wanted to help clear my name."
Matt nodded slowly. "She seemed so genuine."
"Too genuine. Too prepared." I traced my finger along a timeline we'd created. "She had burner phones in her drawer. A wall covered with information about me. She knew my coffee preferences." I turned to face him fully. "She wasn't helping us, Matt. She was tracking us."
"Even if you're right—"
"I am right," I interrupted, certainty burning through me like a flame. "She orchestrated this entire frame. She's been planning it for quite some time, probably."
"Fine," Matt conceded, stepping closer. "Let's say she's behind everything. That's even more reason to get distance. We can gather evidence remotely, work through Juan, build our case from somewhere she can't reach us."
"No," I shook my head firmly. "We need proximity. We need to catch her making a mistake."
Outside, rain began to fall, light drops becoming a steady patter against the weathered roof.
A tarp covering part of the ceiling billowed slightly with each gust of wind, water collecting in its center before spilling onto the floor in the corner.
The storm was picking up, mirroring the tension in our small space.
"This is your life we're talking about," Matt said, his voice rising slightly. "Your freedom. Your future. Our children’s future. We can't gamble that on the hope that a meticulous killer who's planned this for years will suddenly make a convenient mistake."
"She will," I countered, moving to stand directly in front of him. "Her obsession with details makes her vulnerable. She's not just framing me; she's playing a game with me."
The wind howled suddenly, sending a spray of water through a gap in the wall. Matt flinched as droplets hit his face, but I continued, my voice low and intense.
"Sarah sees this as some twisted courtship. Collins rejected her, and she eliminated him. Now she's eliminating what she sees as obstacles between you and her. She wants me discredited, imprisoned, or dead so she can create space for her fantasy life with you."
Matt's expression darkened. "The comment about Tommy needing a father figure."
"Exactly." I nodded. "This isn't just about framing me. It's about claiming you. In her mind, she's creating a vacancy in your life that she can fill." I reached out, my fingers brushing his arm. "If we run, she'll follow. And she'll keep killing to maintain the narrative she's creating."
The boathouse gave another protesting groan as the thunderstorm intensified outside. Water had begun to seep through cracks in the floorboards, forming small puddles. Matt looked down at my hand on his arm, then back to my face.
"So, what's your plan?" he asked, his resistance softening slightly. "We can't exactly walk into police headquarters with theories about Sarah's obsession."
"We need concrete evidence that links her to the murders," I said, stepping back toward our makeshift investigation board. "Proof she was stalking Collins. What’s her connection to the second victim? Anything that disrupts the narrative she's—"
The distinct sound of footsteps on the wooden dock outside cut through my words—heavy, deliberate steps approaching the boathouse door. We both froze. Matt extinguished the lamp with one quick movement, plunging us into darkness.
The footsteps stopped directly outside our door. A pause, pregnant with threat. Then, the unmistakable sound of the rusted latch being tested from the outside.