Chapter 35
Matt's hand found my arm underwater, squeezing gently to get my attention before pointing toward the eastern shore where a cluster of seagrapes offered potential cover.
I nodded, understanding his plan without words—we would stay submerged as much as possible, surfacing only for quick, silent breaths as we made our way to concealment.
We pushed off from the pier's shadow, using gentle, muffled strokes that barely disturbed the water's surface.
The cold bit deeper with each passing second, numbing my fingers and sending shivers through my core.
My wounded side throbbed in protest against the exertion, but I channeled the pain into focus, using it to keep my mind sharp despite the hypothermia gradually setting in.
Fifteen feet from the pier, I paused to tread water, taking another carefully controlled breath as I scanned our surroundings.
The boathouse was now silhouetted against the night sky, its damaged structure creaking in the wind.
No movement was visible through the shattered windows.
No flashes of gunfire. No sign of Victor.
The stillness felt calculated rather than coincidental—the quiet before another storm.
That's when I saw her.
A figure had appeared at the edge of the dock, illuminated by the same moonlight that had earlier revealed Victor in the doorway.
Sarah Winters stood motionless, staring out across the water, her posture relaxed despite the violence she had just orchestrated.
She wore dark clothing—practical for a night operation—with her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
Even from a distance, I could see that she held a gun at her side with the comfortable familiarity of someone who knew how to use it.
What struck me most, however, was her expression.
The Sarah I knew—or thought I knew—had always maintained a certain softness in her features, a helpful warmth in her eyes.
That mask had fallen away completely. In its place was something predatory, almost hungry.
Her lips curved in a smile that contained no warmth, only satisfaction.
Her eyes scanned the water's surface with the calculated patience of a hunter tracking wounded prey.
I'd interviewed dozens of killers during my FBI career, had stared into the eyes of people who had committed unimaginable acts.
I recognized what I was seeing now—the unguarded moment when a predator believes they're unobserved, when the performance drops away, and the true nature emerges.
Sarah's transformation was so complete that she might have been a different person entirely from the warm bookstore owner who had served us cookies in her perfect suburban kitchen.
Matt tugged at my sleeve, urging me to keep moving. I followed his lead, pushing through the water with increasingly numb limbs. Each stroke sent fresh pain radiating from my injured side, but I focused on survival rather than suffering.
Sarah moved along the dock, her movements unhurried, confident.
She held something in her other hand—a flashlight, which she now switched on, sweeping its beam across the water's surface in methodical passes.
The light reflected off the gentle waves, creating deceptive patterns that would make it difficult to distinguish swimmers from natural movement.
Her technique suggested training or research—one more detail that didn't align with the persona of a simple bookstore owner.
"She's hunting," I thought, the professional part of my brain continuing to analyze even as my body fought the cold water.
Not searching in panic or anger, but hunting with precision and patience.
This wasn't impulsive violence but calculated elimination of obstacles.
In her mind, I was simply a problem to solve on her path to the life she believed she deserved.