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It was hard to believe he was really a free man now.
It felt surreal.
She had never thought this day would come.
He had threatened to come after her if he were ever released.
She was the one responsible for putting him behind bars.
Chloe had been ten when she’d met him. She had been walking home from a friend’s house. It was only down the block from her house, and she had whined continuously about having one of her parents come and collect her. She was ten years old, surely old enough to make the short walk home by herself.
It’d been summer, and nearly nine at night. It was getting dark, but the last lingering rays made it light enough to still see fairly easily.
She’d walked only a few houses along when she’d spotted the car.
A big white van.
It had started moving when she closed the gate at the end of the garden path of her friend’s house.
Only it didn't take off normally and drive off down the street.
Instead, it trailed along slowly.
Following her.
She knew instinctively that it was bad news.
The man had pulled over, rolled down his window, and called out to her. Asking for help finding an address.
He had looked normal enough, but the swirling feeling in her stomach had told her he wasn't normal.
She had screamed at the top of her lungs, startling the man and he’d quickly driven off.
People had come, and she’d told what had happened. The cops had turned up—and the FBI. She had gotten a good look at the man and remembered part of his license plate number. They were able to find him, and it turned out that he was responsible for the rape and murder of at least four other little girls in the neighborhood.
It was her testimony that had helped put him away.
And in court, on the day he was sentenced, he had screamed threats at her.
But he had been given life, so how was he out on parole?
It didn't make sense.
Chloe didn't really think he was a threat to her. Sixteen years had passed, and she was no longer a helpless little girl. Now she was an adult, an FBI agent; she was armed, and she knew how to protect herself. She wasn't really worried, but she was a little uneasy.
On the couch beside her, her phone began to buzz.
It was Fin.
Again.
This had to be the twentieth time he’d called her.
Couldn’t he take a hint? She hadn’t answered any of his calls. Surely, he could see that meant she didn't want to talk to him. If he was worried about whether Taylor had hurt her, he couldalways get an update from Tom. And if he wanted information on the Marcus King case, he could get that from Tom too—not that her partner knew any more than she did about it.
A gigantic yawn nearly split her face in two.
She was tired.
