A cry for help, p.5
A CRY FOR HELP, page 5
"Come into my office," she said after a moment, glancing toward the front of the store as if expecting police to burst through at any moment. "You shouldn't be standing out here where someone might see you through the windows."
We followed her into the cramped office—a space made smaller by overflowing bookshelves and stacks of publisher catalogs. A desk dominated the center, its surface buried under paperwork, coffee mugs, and a laptop displaying a spreadsheet. Sarah closed the door behind us, then leaned against it, still clutching her papers.
"I need to understand what's happening," she said, her voice steadier now.
I sank into one of the visitor chairs, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. "The man—Richard Collins—was planted in my trunk. I never met him before seeing his body."
“He was at the book signing, though,” Sarah said.
“He was? I don’t remember him,” I said.
“Well, you signed thousands of books and read to an entire room filled with hundreds of people, so why would you remember one face?” Sarah's eyes widened slightly as she continued. "He worked at Meridian Financial as an accountant, but loved mysteries and anything related to policework."
I leaned forward. "You knew him?"
Sarah set the papers on her desk with deliberate care. "He was a regular customer. Came in every Thursday for the new mystery releases. Always bought two—one thriller, one classic detective story." Her voice softened. "I can't believe he's dead. He was such a lovely man."
Matt and I exchanged glances. Our first real connection to the victim, our first potential thread to pull. The bookstore.
"Sarah," I said carefully, "I need to know everything about him. Who he spoke to, what he was like, and if he ever mentioned any troubles. Anything that might help me understand why someone would kill him and use him to frame me."
Sarah pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers noticeably unsteady. "I don't know much about his personal life. He was quiet and polite. Mentioned work sometimes, complaining about audits and deadlines. I guess you could say we flirted a little. Maybe that’s why he kept coming in." She hesitated, glancing at her phone on the desk. "But he did seem… nervous these past few weeks—looking over his shoulder a lot. I asked if he was okay, and he said something about discovering numbers that didn't add up."
My pulse quickened. "Numbers that didn't add up? Like financial discrepancies?"
"I think so." Sarah wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t believe he’s gone, though. It makes me so sad.”
I reached for her hand, and she let me grab it. Our eyes met, and I could tell she wasn’t afraid of me. “I… we… need your help. Can we trust you?”
Her lips became narrow, her eyes scrutinizing both of us. Then she nodded. “Okay. I want to believe you. How can I help?”
Relief washed through me—a potential ally, and our first lead, all in one conversation.
Chapter 11
THEN:
Ann's alarm blared for the third time, finally piercing through her dreams of watchful brown eyes and a smile that transformed severity into warmth. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the realization crashed over her—today she might see Marcus again. The thought sent her lurching upright, sleep forgotten as anticipation flooded her system, her heart already racing though her feet hadn't even touched the floor.
The digital clock's red numbers accused her of indulgence: 9:17 a.m. She wasn't due at Granger's until eleven, but Ann had planned to arrive early, to ensure everything in her section would be perfect when—if—Marcus appeared. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her toes curling against the cool hardwood as images from yesterday replayed in her mind—his steady gaze tracking her movements, the way his presence had filled her awareness even when she wasn't looking directly at him, the deliberate way he'd promised to return.
Ann stood before her closet, suddenly critical of options she'd never questioned before. The standard black pants and white button-down that comprised Granger's unofficial uniform seemed insufficient now. She pulled out three nearly identical pairs of black pants, laying them across her unmade bed, scrutinizing each for subtle differences. The first was slightly faded at the knees. The second had a loose thread at the hem. The third—her newest pair, worn only a handful of times—hugged her hips more closely than the others. She selected these, holding them against herself as she studied her reflection in the full-length mirror attached to her closet door.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered to herself, the same words she'd spoken to her reflection in the rearview mirror while driving home the night before. But she didn't put the pants back. Instead, she spent another fifteen minutes selecting a white shirt—choosing one that was slightly more fitted than her usual preference—and her most comfortable black flats.
In the bathroom, Ann leaned close to the mirror, examining her face with unusual scrutiny. She opened her makeup bag—typically only used for special occasions—and began applying foundation with careful strokes. Her hand trembled slightly as she lined her eyes, a thin smudge of brown rather than her usual bare lids. Mascara next, two coats, then a tinted lip balm that enhanced her natural color without looking obvious. Professional enough for work but more polished than her everyday appearance.
Her hair, typically pulled back in a simple ponytail, received similar attention. She spent precious minutes with a round brush and blow dryer, coaxing it into soft waves that framed her face. When she finally stepped back to assess the full effect, the woman in the mirror looked like a more vivid version of herself—still Ann, but Ann with the contrast turned up, the details sharpened.
The clock read 10:27 when she finally grabbed her purse and keys. She was cutting it close now, especially with the morning traffic. Tom expected servers fifteen minutes before their shift to review the daily specials and prep their sections. Being late wasn't an option, not when she needed everything to go perfectly today.
Ann's car started with its familiar rattle. As she pulled out of her apartment complex, she found herself humming happily.
Traffic moved sluggishly, every red light seeming to last an eternity. Ann drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, checking her watch, calculating minutes. She was cutting it too close. Ten minutes to get across town. She'd need to be lucky with the lights.
When the traffic signal ahead turned yellow, Ann made a split-second decision. She pressed harder on the accelerator, her car surging forward through the intersection just as the light shifted to red. A flash of guilt mixed with triumph as she cleared it—technically legal, but pushing the boundaries of safety.
The brief satisfaction evaporated as red and blue lights flared in her rearview mirror. Ann's stomach dropped, her mouth suddenly dry. She eased her car toward the curb, heart hammering against her ribs as the patrol car pulled in behind her. This couldn't be happening, not today of all days, when she was already running late and needed everything to be perfect for when Marcus arrived at the restaurant.
Through her side mirror, she watched a uniformed figure emerge from the patrol car. The morning sun caught on something metallic—a badge pinned to a broad chest. Ann's breath stopped in her throat as recognition dawned. Even at this distance, the officer's posture and build were unmistakable.
Marcus.
Ann's hands gripped the steering wheel, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. She watched his methodical approach in the mirror, each step bringing him closer, his face becoming clearer. The same intense eyes that had tracked her movements across the restaurant yesterday now focused solely on her vehicle. His expression was neutral, professional—the face of a police officer performing a routine traffic stop, not the man who had watched her with such interest, who had promised to return to see her.
She fumbled with the window control, her finger slipping off the button twice before the glass finally lowered. The morning air rushed in, carrying with it the subtle scent of his cologne—that same woodsy clean smell she'd noticed yesterday when he'd sat at her table.
"License and registration, please," Marcus said, his voice revealing no recognition, no special acknowledgment.
Ann swallowed hard, her throat clicking audibly in the silence. "Officer Hale," she managed, hating how breathy her voice sounded. "I—I didn't realize it was you."
His expression shifted then, a slight softening around the eyes as he leaned down to get a better look at her face. The sunlight caught on his badge, sending fractured light across the interior of her car.
"I recognize you from Tom Granger’s restaurant, don't I?" he said, his tone warming a fraction, though his posture remained professional. "Ann, right?"
She nodded, her chest tight with a mixture of relief and anxiety. "Yes. I-I'm sorry about the light. I'm running late for my shift."
"I still need to see your license and registration," he reminded her, the authority in his voice unmistakable despite the hint of familiarity.
"Of course," Ann said, turning to reach for her purse on the passenger seat. Her hand shook visibly as she rummaged for her wallet, papers spilling out in her haste. She extracted her license, then opened the glove compartment for her registration and insurance card. The small cards slipped through her trembling fingers not once but twice, falling to the floor mat before she finally secured them and handed everything over.
Marcus took the documents, his eyes scanning them briefly before returning to her face. Ann couldn't help but notice the way his uniform stretched across his shoulders, how the fabric looked freshly pressed, the neat line of buttons drawing her eye down the center of his chest. His utility belt held the equipment of his profession—gun, handcuffs, radio—each item a reminder of his authority, his power.
"You seem nervous," he observed, his voice lower now.
"I hate being late," Ann said, which was true, though it wasn't the primary reason her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her fingertips. "Tom—my boss—he's strict about punctuality."
Marcus nodded, his eyes lingering on her face. Ann became acutely aware of her makeup, the extra care she'd taken with her appearance this morning. Had he noticed? Could he tell it was for him?
"You changed your hair," he said, confirming that he had indeed noticed. The comment wasn't professional, wasn't related to her traffic violation, but Ann felt a surge of pleasure at his observation.
"Just… trying something different," she said, her fingers automatically reaching up to tuck a strand behind her ear, a gesture he'd seen her make repeatedly during her shift yesterday.
Marcus's gaze followed the movement, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth before his expression returned to professional neutrality. "Let me run these," he said, holding up her documents. "Sit tight."
As he walked back to his patrol car, Ann exhaled shakily, suddenly aware she'd been holding her breath. She watched him in her side mirror—the crisp lines of his uniform, the confident way he moved. This couldn't be a coincidence—being pulled over by Marcus of all people, on the very morning after he'd promised to see her again. The universe didn't work that way.
Unless he had been looking for her.
The thought sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through her system, a mixture of fear and something dangerously close to excitement.
Ann watched Marcus through her side mirror as he stood by his patrol car, her documents in hand. He appeared to be taking longer than necessary, studying her information with unusual thoroughness before finally making his way back to her window. His steps were measured, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world despite her evident rush to get to work. The sunlight caught in his short dark hair as he approached, and Ann found herself holding her breath again, her fingers resuming their nervous dance against the steering wheel.
"Well, Ann Porter," he said, leaning down to her window. Her name in his mouth sounded different somehow—more significant. "Everything checks out. You've got a clean record."
She nodded, not trusting her voice immediately. "So… am I getting a ticket?" The question came out smaller than she intended, almost hopeful in its uncertainty.
Marcus studied her face for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I think we can let this one slide with a warning." He held out her documents. "But yellow lights mean slow down, not speed up. You know that."
Ann reached for the papers, her fingertips brushing against his as she took them. The contact wasn't accidental—his fingers lingered against hers a fraction too long, the pressure slight but deliberate. Her skin tingled where they touched, the sensation traveling up her arm like an electric current.
"Thank you," she managed, hyper-aware of the blush spreading across her cheeks. "I really appreciate it."
Their eyes met, and in that moment, something passed between them—a current of recognition, of mutual awareness that transcended their brief encounters. His professional mask slipped just enough to reveal a hint of the man who had watched her with such interest in the restaurant.
"Be more careful next time," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "I'd hate to see anything happen to you."
The words were standard enough for a traffic stop, but the way he said them—with a soft intensity, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—transformed them into something more intimate, more personal. Ann felt her chest tighten, her breath shallow.
"I will," she promised, meaning it.
Marcus straightened, taking a step back from her car. "Have a good day, Ann. Drive safely." The professional tone had returned, but his eyes held hers a moment longer than necessary before he turned away.
Ann watched in her rearview mirror as he walked back to his patrol car. Halfway there, he paused, looking back at her vehicle as if considering something. What was he thinking? Had he planned to find her this morning? The questions buzzed in her mind like trapped insects as she watched him finally continue to his car.
Only when his patrol car pulled away did Ann release the breath she'd been holding. She pulled back into traffic, her mind racing faster than her car.
The coincidence seemed too perfect to be random. How likely was it that of all the officers who could have pulled her over, it would be Marcus Hale? Ann had never believed much in fate, but this—this felt like something aligned by forces beyond her understanding. Or perhaps more deliberately arranged by human intention.
Had he followed her home last night? The patrol car she'd glimpsed outside her apartment complex as it passed by—had that been him? The thought should have alarmed her, but instead it sent a thrill of excitement through her. He was interested enough to seek her out, to learn where she lived, to engineer another meeting before their planned encounter at the restaurant.
By the time Ann pulled into the employee parking lot at Granger's, her emotions had cycled through confusion, excitement, anxiety, and back again. She checked her appearance in the rearview mirror, reapplied her lip balm, and tucked her hair behind her ear—the gesture she now recognized as something she did when nervous, something he had noticed.
The kitchen's heat hit her as she pushed through the back entrance, the familiar sounds and smells grounding her after the surreal morning encounter. She hurried to the break room to stow her purse, nearly colliding with Miriam, who was emerging with her order pad in hand.
"There you are!" Miriam's eyes widened as she took in Ann's appearance. "Whoa. What happened to you? You look… different."
Ann touched her hair self-consciously. "Just felt like making an effort today."
Miriam's eyes narrowed with interest. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Officer Dreamy from yesterday, would it?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Ann said, the denial automatic even as heat rose to her cheeks.
"Mmhmm." Miriam's knowing smile made Ann look away. "Well, Tom was asking for you. You're cutting it close."
Ann nodded, checking her watch—11:13. She was late. "I got pulled over," she said, the truth escaping before she could consider whether sharing was wise.
Miriam's eyebrows shot up. "Ticket?"
"Just a warning."
"Lucky you." Miriam studied her face. "You okay? You seem… I don't know. Wired."
"I'm fine," Ann said, moving past her friend to clock in. "Just a weird morning."
The restaurant was always quiet in the lull before the lunch rush, giving Ann time to prep her section. She arranged salt and pepper shakers with unusual precision, aligning them perfectly at the center of each table. Her mind kept drifting back to the traffic stop—Marcus's fingers against hers, the way his eyes had held hers, his parting words. “I'd hate to see anything happen to you.” As if he were concerned about her well-being. As if he cared about her.
Tom emerged from his office, clipboard in hand, eyeing Ann with mild suspicion. "You were cutting it close today, Porter."
"Sorry. Traffic issue." She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask.
"Chef's special today is pan-seared trout with lemon caper sauce." He studied her face. "You feeling alright? You look flushed."
Ann nodded quickly. "I'm fine. Just rushed in."
The first customers arrived shortly after eleven-thirty, and Ann fell into her familiar routine—greeting, seating, taking orders, delivering food. But beneath her professional exterior, a countdown had begun. Each time she passed the wall clock, her eyes flicked to it, calculating the minutes until 1:15, the time Marcus had come in the day before.
By 12:30, the restaurant was half-full, the lunch crowd trickling in steadily. Ann found herself looking toward the door each time it opened, a small jolt of anticipation followed by disappointment when the customer who entered wasn't Marcus. She'd forgotten to bring her table seven's extra napkins, brought unsweetened tea to a customer who had specifically requested sweet, and nearly collided with Chef Cho as she backed through the kitchen door without looking.
"Eyes forward, Porter," Chef Cho snapped, though her expression held more curiosity than anger as she took in Ann's distracted state.
