Chapter 38
I returned to Matt with two bowls of stew and information far more valuable than food. "Tommy Winters is here," I whispered, settling beside him against the wall. "Sarah's son."
Matt's eyes widened slightly. I placed my hand over his, steadying him. "This isn't a coincidence. Sarah must be here too." We both understood the implications: our temporary sanctuary had just become another trap in Sarah's elaborate game.
"You sure it's him?" Matt asked, his voice low as he took the bowl from me.
"Positive."
I picked up my spoon but didn't eat, my attention fixed on Tommy as he moved between the food tables. "He's helping serve, which means Sarah must be volunteering too. I need to see if I can talk to him."
Matt's expression tightened with concern. "That's risky, Eva."
"So is walking into another of Sarah's traps blind." I set my untouched bowl aside. "Children notice things adults don't think they reveal. If Sarah's been planning all this for years, Tommy might have seen something useful."
For fifteen minutes, I watched Tommy work while scanning the room for Sarah.
Eventually, I spotted her supervising a group of volunteers organizing donated clothing at the far end of the room.
Her back was to us, her hair pulled into a casual ponytail—the picture of selfless community service.
My stomach turned at the performance, knowing what lurked beneath the carefully constructed facade.
When Sarah finally headed toward the kitchen area, disappearing through swinging doors, I saw my opportunity.
I squeezed Matt's shoulder and stood, moving casually through the crowded room toward the corner where Tommy now stood folding napkins.
I approached from an angle that wouldn't be immediately visible from the kitchen, adopting the slightly stooped posture of our homeless disguise.
"Need some help with those?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle as I stopped beside him.
Tommy looked up, his eyes widening slightly as recognition flickered across his face. "You're the lady from TV," he said, his voice hushed but not frightened. "The one they said hurt people."
I crouched down to his eye level, maintaining a non-threatening distance. "My name is Eva Rae," I said, deliberately omitting my last name. "I came and visited you at your house, remember? And no, I didn't hurt anyone. Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes about things like that."
Tommy studied my face with the unfiltered intensity only children can manage. "Mom says you're dangerous," he said, then added with surprising candor, "but you don't look dangerous. You look tired."
A smile tugged at my lips despite the gravity of our situation. "I am tired," I admitted. "It's hard when people think you did something you didn't do."
He nodded with unexpected understanding. "That happens to me sometimes. Mom gets mad about things I didn't do."
The opening was perfect—a natural segue that any trained interviewer would recognize.
During my years with the FBI, I'd interviewed dozens of children, learning to follow their lead rather than directing them too forcefully.
Now I employed those same techniques, keeping my body language open and my voice conversational.
"That must be hard," I said, picking up a napkin and beginning to fold it, mirroring his activity to establish a connection. "What kinds of things does your mom get mad about?"
Tommy shrugged, his small fingers working deftly at folding. "When I go places I'm not supposed to. Or when I talk to people she doesn't like." He glanced toward the kitchen doors, then added in a lower voice, "Or when I ask about the special room."
I kept my expression neutral despite the alarm bells ringing internally. "Special room?"
He nodded, continuing to fold napkins as we spoke. "In our basement. Mom has a lock on it. I'm not allowed to go in there, ever." His eyes darted toward the kitchen again. "She gets really mad if I even ask about it."
"Have you ever seen inside this room?" I asked, careful to maintain my casual tone while my heart raced.
Tommy shook his head. "Once I peeked when she left the door open a little. I saw lots of pictures on the wall and a desk with a computer on it. Mom was really angry when she caught me." His voice dropped further. "She didn't let me have dinner that night and made me stay in my room all weekend."
The punishment revealed more about Sarah's controlling nature—the disproportionate response to a child's natural curiosity. I handed him another folded napkin, our fingers briefly touching in a gesture meant to reassure.
"Does your mom have friends who visit?" I asked, thinking of Collins and his connection to Sarah.
Tommy's face brightened slightly. "Mr. Collins used to come over. He was nice. He brought me books about space and answered my questions. Mom acted different when he was there—more smiley." His expression fell. "But he stopped coming. Mom said he did something bad and couldn't visit anymore."
"When did he stop visiting?"
"A while ago. Before…" He hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Before Mom started acting weird."
"Weird how?" I prompted gently.
Tommy looked down at the napkins, his fingers stilling.
"She talks to herself a lot now. When she thinks I'm asleep, I can hear her in her room, having whole conversations with nobody there.
" He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.
"And sometimes she gets really happy for no reason, like something good happened but she won't tell me what.
Then other times she gets super mad and breaks things. "
The clinical part of my brain cataloged these behaviors—mood swings, possible delusions or hallucinations, episodes of rage—classic signs of deteriorating mental stability.
But the part of me that was a mother recognized something else in Tommy's description: fear. This child was afraid in his own home.
He glanced nervously toward the kitchen doors again. "She's been watching the news a lot. She has a special notebook where she writes things down when they talk about you on TV."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with my still-damp clothes. Sarah was documenting the manhunt, tracking the progression of her frame in real-time. The level of obsession suggested she was becoming more unstable, more unpredictable.
"Tommy," I said carefully, "that special room in your basement—do you know if your mom keeps other things there? Maybe things that belonged to Mr. Collins?"
His eyes widened slightly. "I don't know, but…" He leaned closer, his voice barely audible. "Last week I saw her carrying a box down there. It had a gun inside. I wasn't supposed to see, but I was getting water, and she didn't know I was in the kitchen."
My blood ran cold—a gun—possibly the murder weapon used on Collins and the woman they found downtown. Before I could ask another question, Tommy's gaze darted past my shoulder, fear flashing across his face.
"She's coming back," he whispered urgently. "You should go. She gets really mad when—"
I nodded, straightening up and moving away with casual deliberation, as if I'd simply been passing by.
The information Tommy had provided confirmed my worst suspicions about Sarah while adding new, disturbing dimensions to the picture.
Whatever was in that basement room might be the key to unraveling her entire frame-up—and potentially saving both our lives.