11

Back at Pat’s, I dived fully-clothed under the blankets and huddled there, thinking through my options.

The developing story Leah had sent contained almost no details, citing the need not to jeopardize the ongoing investigation. But one thing was clear: Mitchell Charles David Johnson had escaped from the courthouse. There was some suspicion he’d had help from one of the guards. The police perimeter now extended beyond Tallahassee and through the whole of Leon County.

The fact that Johnson had escaped from the Florida Supreme Court Building in Tallahassee put him much closer to the state line—and much closer to me.

But still. Florida was Florida. It was far. There was no way he would be anywhere near here, let alone so soon. Even if he decided to leverage his likely short-lived freedom to hunt me down, he'd have to drive instead of fly, which would take at least eighteen hours by car. I knew this because after reading the developing story, I’d immediately looked up drive times.

Which was beside the point. There was no way Johnson knew where I was. Sure, I'd given that shout-out to Birchardville online a few weeks ago; but since then, Leah had given numerous shout-outs to fans in other cities. There was no reason to assume he'd make a beeline for Birchardville even if he did decide to drive up here—which he wouldn't.

The man had just spent the last five years in prison. Tracking down a former-journalist-turned-bestselling-author-turned-crime-podcaster should be a bit lower on the list.

Except he'd repeatedly affirmed in interviews the same message he’d relayed via the letters he’d sent to my show’s post office box: if he ever got out, the first thing he’d do would be to hunt me down. “And unlike when I tossed what was left of my family into the Everglades, no one will ever find what’s left of you.”

It's likely neither of us imagined a future in which that would be possible, let alone this soon.

I had a sudden flash of the crow on the doorstep, its glassy eyes wide and cold. But no—that was irrational. The crow had nothing to do with this. That bird had crazed Internet stalker written all over it. A crazed Internet stalker who somehow knew where I was.

And if Beverly Mae Pickett had found out…

No.

Not possible. I needed to pull myself together.

I would get out from under these covers, eat something, type up my notes, get ready for bed, and sleep the whole night. When I woke up in the morning, headlines would report that Johnson had been caught speeding through Georgia in a stolen car.

Except that’s not what happened.