The next morning, FBI Agent Grant Cole woke up earlier than he had anticipated. The room was still dim with the first hints of sunlight creeping through the blinds, and he could not say he had slept well, the memory of that dream still clinging to him, vivid and unsettling, where Frankie had been buried alive, her terrified eyes haunting him long after he had woken.
He moved through his morning routine with methodical precision, stepping into the shower and letting the hot water wash away the remnants of the nightmare, though the unease lingered beneath his skin. Once dressed, he adjusted his impeccable black suit, the fabric crisp and unyielding, pairing it with matching pants and a pale blue blouse that provided a subtle contrast beneath his tailored jacket. A black tie hung perfectly in place, and his Salt and Pepper hair, meticulously styled, completed the image of control and composure. Grant believed he was ready for another day of investigation, ready to face whatever shadows the city might hold, though a small, stubborn knot of worry tightened in his chest, reminding him that some cases, and some fears, refused to be so easily dismissed.
On his way to Bobby’s place, Grant grabbed a quick breakfast from McDonald’s, a simple order he ate on the go. There was no time to stop at a proper restaurant and enjoy a leisurely meal. Time was pressing, and soon the quiet little diner would open its doors again, bustling with the usual crowd. He had questions he needed answered, and he made sure to call Bobby before heading over, confirming that it would be alright for him to drop by. Bobby had never minded visits from FBI Agent Grant Cole, and he made it clear that his door was always open.
As Grant’s Chevrolet Malibu rolled up the familiar street, he spotted Bobby’s small house, modest and unassuming, nestled in the same neighborhood as his niece. The house had seen better days, paint peeling slightly from the siding, windows that had been repaired more times than he could count, yet it had a lived-in charm that somehow suited Bobby. Parking next to Bobby’s dusty pickup, Grant stepped out and took a deep breath, adjusting his jacket before walking up the worn path to the front door.
He knocked twice, deliberate and firm, and moments later Bobby appeared, a friendly smile greeting him as he swung the door open. “Hello, Agent Cole, please come inside,” he said warmly.
Grant stepped in and immediately took in the interior, his trained eyes scanning the familiar clutter. It was messy, but in a way that spoke of a life fully lived rather than a house neglected. The chaos reminded him of Bobby’s office, papers stacked unevenly, tools scattered across counters, yet at least it did not carry the stale, oppressive smell that lingered in Mark’s house. There was a faint but unmistakable aroma in the air, the comforting scent of eggs and bacon, cooking slowly on the stove, a homey touch that made the space feel alive. Grant allowed himself a brief moment to appreciate the normalcy before shifting his focus to the reason he was there, knowing that questions would need answers, and every detail could matter.
“Hope you don’t mind, I was just about to have breakfast, but please, you can take a seat at the kitchen table if you like,” Bobby said, motioning toward the stove where eggs and bacon sizzled gently, the aroma filling the small kitchen. The sunlight spilling through the window caught on the worn wooden table and the chipped paint of the cabinets, giving the space a lived-in warmth.
Grant Cole slid into a chair at the kitchen table, his hand automatically reaching for his notepad inside his jacket. The familiar leather cover felt reassuring beneath his fingers, a tool he relied on as much as his instincts.
“No, not at all, please, eat,” Grant said, his voice calm, measured, though his eyes were already focused on Bobby. “I won’t take long of your time, I just have a few questions concerning Frankie’s car.”
The mention of Frankie’s car made Bobby raise a brow, a flicker of curiosity and confusion passing over his face. He paused, spatula in hand, unsure where Grant was going with this line of questioning.
“Her car? Hmm, okay, what is it you want to know?” Bobby asked as he walked over to the stove, scooping the eggs and bacon onto a plate with care, the sizzling sound punctuating the quiet morning.
Grant leaned slightly forward, pen poised over his notepad, and spoke clearly, “I was told that Frankie’s car got hit on the rear bumper a few weeks ago, when she was at work. Is it true that it happened in the restaurant parking lot?”
Bobby took a thoughtful bite of eggs, chewing slowly as he considered the question. He nodded at Cole before swallowing, then set his fork down with a small shrug.
“Yes, indeed. Someone hit the rear of her car, and she was furious. It’s her first brand new car, and she treats it like it was a Ferrari,” Bobby said with a chuckle, shaking his head slightly at the memory.
Grant allowed himself a small smile, warmth flickering across his face. There was something comforting about Bobby’s candor, the way he spoke with both honesty and humor, a brief but welcome reprieve from the weight of the case that lingered in Cole’s mind.
“I see, it’s indeed frustrating when it’s your first brand new car… Let’s just say I didn’t have a car like Frankie when I was in my twenties,” Grant said with a chuckle, the corners of his mouth twitching as he delivered the joke. Bobby laughed along with him, the sound warm and easy, a brief moment of levity in the morning air.
“The information I have is that Frankie wanted to close last night because she needed money to pay her insurance deductible at the Auto Body Shop. Apparently, you allowed her to, and told Samantha to leave the closure to your niece, right?” Grant continued, his tone even, professional, yet carrying just enough weight to press for the truth.
Bobby froze mid-bite, fork hovering over his plate, a faint crease appearing on his forehead as he processed the question. “What? Nope! Frankie never asked me this! At least, I think I’d remember. Of course, I wasn’t there last night, and I don’t know if Frankie could have asked Samantha herself, but I really doubt it. Samantha isn’t exactly keen on closing. Pardon me, she’s a good bartender, but she’s an easy woman, if you get my drift,” Bobby added, shaking his head slightly, his voice carrying both amusement and a hint of exasperation.
Grant watched him carefully, noting the subtle change in Bobby’s expression, the way his eyes narrowed for a brief second. The question seemed to bother him, though whether it was because it struck too close to the truth or because he instinctively sided with his niece, Grant could not be sure. It was hard to tell at this point, and that uncertainty was part of the puzzle.
So far, the statements he had gathered from Mark, David, and Samantha did not match what Frankie and Bobby were saying. There were gaps, contradictions, and shifts in tone that set off alarms in Grant’s mind. Every word mattered, every hesitation could reveal something hidden, and the FBI agent made a mental note to cross-check these details later. He felt the familiar weight of the investigation pressing down on him, a subtle tension that seemed to thrum in the quiet kitchen alongside the faint aroma of eggs and bacon.
Bobby was indeed growing furious, not at the FBI agent sitting across from him, but at Samantha and the tangled web of lies she seemed determined to weave. His hands tightened slightly around the fork, knuckles pale with restrained irritation, yet his gaze remained steady on Grant, determined to set the record straight.
“I’ll be honest with you, Agent Cole,” Bobby said, his voice firm, carrying a mix of frustration and pride, “my niece doesn’t need to ask her co-workers for closure, because she has money. She’s a good girl, she’s responsible, she’s not going out partying, she’s not traveling, and she’s saving every penny to buy a house, maybe in two years… But I know one thing, that WRX parked in her driveway, she paid for it in cash! So I really doubt my niece ever needed to close instead of the others!”
As he spoke, Bobby plunged his fork into the plate, stabbing a piece of egg with more force than necessary, the sound echoing slightly in the small kitchen. Grant watched him carefully, noting the intensity behind his words, and at the same time, a question lingered in his mind. How could a twenty-five-year-old waitress gather enough money to pay cash for a brand-new car like a Subaru WRX? It was unusual, even impressive, and it added another layer to the mystery Grant was trying to unravel.
“I see…” Grant said slowly, tilting his head, pen ready above his notepad. His tone was calm, professional, but inquisitive, probing gently into territory that seemed to unsettle Bobby only slightly. “Now, if you don’t mind me asking, it’s part of my job… How can a twenty-five-year-old waitress pay in cash for a brand-new car like this? I mean, she has rent to pay, utilities, and other expenses, right?”
Bobby leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose, the tension in his shoulders betraying his annoyance at even having to explain what should have been obvious. “Listen, Agent Cole,” he said, his voice a mix of exasperation and protectiveness, “my niece is smart, disciplined, and careful with her money. She works hard, saves hard, and she makes her own decisions. Trust me, she doesn’t need anyone to look after her finances or her work schedule. She handles her life, and I don’t appreciate anyone thinking otherwise.”
Grant made a note in his pad, studying Bobby closely. There was something in the older man’s fury, in the sharpness of his words, that spoke volumes about his loyalty and his protective nature. Every detail mattered, and Grant knew that understanding the dynamic between Bobby and Frankie could be as important as the facts of the case itself.
Then Bobby felt the need to say more about Frankie’s money, his voice a mixture of pride and protectiveness, his hands nervously twisting the napkin on the table.
“My sister passed away three years ago from a damn cancer, cruel and relentless, and Frankie inherited from the insurance. It was a decent sum, enough to give her some security, and she placed it carefully in a bank account, watching it grow over the years with patience and intelligence. I think that is probably why she was able to buy her Subaru… She had been dreaming of that car since she was fifteen, talking about it all the time, and finally, finally she could have it, her dream realized. Anyway, my niece is a good person, she has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with that murder...”
Grant studied Bobby for a moment, noticing how flustered and earnest he had become, understanding perfectly the deep well of emotion behind his words. He nodded slowly, giving Bobby a small, reassuring smile, and decided it was best to shift the conversation to something else.
“Alright,” the FBI agent said gently, “do you think you’re able to tell me where Frankie got her car repaired?” His eyes softened as he spoke, aware that pushing too hard might make Bobby retreat even further.
Bobby, still standing as he carried his plate toward the sink, shook his head with a sigh, a mixture of frustration and amusement crossing his features.
“Oh, that’s a good question, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” he admitted, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “At this point, you should check with Frankie herself. She’s the only one who knows that information, as far as I’m concerned, and really, it’s best coming from her.”
This was the moment Agent Cole knew it was time to leave, the subtle shift in the air around Bobby signaling that everything that could be said had been said, at least for now. He had asked the questions that had been pressing at the back of his mind, the ones he had carried with him since the start, the ones that only Bobby could answer. Now, it was time for a second visit to Frankie, a necessary step to see the other side of the story, to hear it from her own lips. He needed to confirm where she had gotten her car repaired and, more importantly, to find out whether the rumors swirling around her were true, or if Samantha and the others were weaving lies for reasons he could only guess at.
Why Frankie? Why target her? Was it jealousy, because she was younger, more composed, more grounded than any of them, with a stability that seemed to outshine everyone else combined? The thought made sense to Grant, it fit a pattern he had seen too many times before, but he could not be certain. People acted out of motives far more tangled than even the most logical reasoning could predict. And so, with a deep breath, he resolved to uncover the truth, knowing that only Frankie could shed light on the shadows that had been cast over her life.
Of course Grant was not going to drive past Frankie’s apartment without calling her first, even if it was only ten o’clock in the morning. The hour should have been reassuring, a normal time of day when people were usually awake and going about their routines, yet something about the silence unsettled him. Perhaps she was not home, maybe she had stepped out to run errands. He did not know for sure, but one thing quickly became obvious, the call he placed was useless, as Frankie did not answer. The phone rang until it went to voicemail, leaving Grant with a faint sense of unease that he could not fully explain.
The reason Frankie did not answer the FBI agent’s call was painfully simple. She had left her iPhone in her car. Earlier that morning, she had gone to the public pool, hoping that swimming would help quiet her thoughts and steady her nerves after everything she had been through. She had not stayed long. People at the pool kept looking at her in a strange way, their gazes lingering, their whispers impossible to ignore. Whether it was suspicion, curiosity, or something more malicious, Frankie could not tell, but it was enough to make her uncomfortable. By the time she left, she already knew she would avoid swimming for the next few weeks, at least until the murder and the investigation were finally behind her.
What awaited her when she returned to her apartment was something she could never have prepared for. The moment she opened the door, her heart dropped. The place had been ransacked during her absence, the quiet of the hallway giving way to chaos inside. She stood frozen, staring in disbelief, her mind refusing to catch up with what her eyes were seeing.
Her mouth fell open as she slowly walked through the apartment, her legs feeling weak beneath her. Her belongings were scattered across the floor, kitchen drawers ripped open and dumped out, as if someone had been searching desperately for something, or simply wanted to destroy her sense of safety. Papers, clothes, and personal items lay everywhere. Then she reached her bedroom, and the shock deepened into pure violation, someone had even pissed in her bed. Her stomach churned, revulsion and fear twisting together as tears stung her eyes.
As she backed away from the bedroom, something in the living room caught her attention. A single sheet of paper had been left behind, placed deliberately where she would see it. Her hands shook as she picked it up, her heart pounding so hard it hurt as she read the words.
“You better keep your mouth shut in front of that FBI Agent, or else I’m going to kill you dirty whore!!”
Frankie’s blue eyes widened in panic. She did not recognize the handwriting, and there was no name at the bottom, no signature at all. Of course there was not. Whoever had done this wanted to stay hidden.
Fear flooded her body all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Her breath came fast and uneven as she dropped her backpack to the floor and began digging through it, searching desperately for her Glucagon pen. Her blood sugar was dropping quickly, she could feel it in the dizziness creeping in, the cold sweat forming on her skin. She had not eaten anything after her workout, and the shock had pushed her body too far.
She sank onto the sofa in the living room, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she injected herself in the belly. Her thoughts refused to slow, the words from the letter replaying again and again in her mind. Frankie tried to calm herself, tried to breathe through the fear, but it was easier said than done. Someone had been in her home, someone had been watching her, and now she knew, with terrifying certainty, that this was no longer just an investigation. It was a threat, and it was personal.
Frankie knew deep inside of her that she had to run away. The thought came suddenly, sharp and unavoidable, cutting through the fog of fear that had settled over her since she had stepped into her ransacked apartment. She was terrified of ending up like Melinda Carter, dead and discarded in the back alley of a restaurant, reduced to a name in a police report and a cautionary tale whispered by others. The danger felt real now, close enough to touch, and instinct screamed at her to survive. What she needed to do was simple in theory, flee Salt Lake City and hide somewhere, at least for a few days, long enough for the situation to cool down and for whoever was threatening her to lose track of her.
Yet even as the plan formed in her mind, another problem surfaced. Running away could raise suspicion, especially with the FBI already watching her movements. Disappearing without a word might make her look guilty, or worse, confirm the lies others had been spreading about her. The thought made her stomach tighten, fear and logic pulling her in opposite directions.
Still sitting on her sofa, her body slowly steadying as the glucagon began to do its job, Frankie stared at the mess around her, the overturned drawers, the scattered belongings, the letter still burned into her thoughts. She felt cornered, out of options, her mind racing but finding no safe answer. She knew one thing with certainty, if she stayed here, she would be trapped like a fly in a spider web, waiting for the moment the spider decided to strike. Whoever had written that letter had something to hide, something worth threatening her life over, and speaking up now could cost her everything.
As the dizziness finally began to fade, clarity crept back in. Frankie took a slow breath and made a decision. She would leave the city, just for a few days, just long enough to protect herself. An idea surfaced, small but solid, and for the first time since she had walked through her door, it gave her a fragile sense of control. There was a place she could go, hidden far from curious eyes, a small cabin tucked deep in the woods that belonged to her uncle Bobby. Hardly anyone knew about it, and even fewer ever visited it.
Moving quickly now, driven by adrenaline, Frankie went back to her bedroom and pulled an old gym bag from the back of her closet. She packed only what she truly needed, clothes, her toothbrush, creams, her glucagon pen, and a few personal items she could not part with. Every choice was careful and deliberate. She knew she could not use her credit cards while she was hiding, any digital trace could give her away. Cash only, no receipts, no patterns, no mistakes.
She zipped the bag shut and paused for a moment, standing in the middle of the room, listening to her own breathing. Frankie understood that staying low meant becoming invisible, slipping through the cracks until it was safe again. It was frightening, but it was also the smartest move she could make. And for now, survival mattered more than anything else.
She did not have a second to waste, she told herself as she flung the gym bag over her shoulder, the weight of it grounding her as she moved toward the main entrance with a single thought in mind, she had to leave. Nothing else mattered. She no longer cared that her apartment had been ransacked, that her life had been turned upside down in the span of a few hours. The mess could wait, the broken sense of safety could wait, survival could not. Whatever had been done to her home would be dealt with later, if there was even a later.
Frankie was only a few steps from the door when she realized the one fatal detail she had overlooked. When she had come back nearly forty minutes earlier, shaken and terrified, she had not fully closed the main entrance. The door stood slightly ajar, just enough for the outside light to seep through the narrow window. As she approached, heart pounding, a dark silhouette suddenly filled that glass.
“Frankie? It’s Agent Cole, are you in there?”
The sound of his voice froze her in place. Her blood turned cold, her breath caught in her throat as panic surged through her chest. She could not move, could not speak, every instinct screaming at her to disappear. There was a single knock, firm but cautious, and then the handle shifted. Grant realized the door was not locked. As it slowly opened, Frankie reacted on pure instinct.
She spun around and bolted toward her bedroom, moving as fast and as quietly as she could, her feet barely touching the floor. Her heart thundered in her ears as she reached the window and slid it open. Being small had its advantages. With practiced agility born of desperation, Frankie slipped herself through the opening, careful not to make a sound, lowering herself outside. Luck was on her side, she lived on the first floor. Her feet hit the ground softly, and she did not look back.
Now she had only one goal, to reach her car parked in the lot behind the building. She could not allow Grant to see her, not now, not when she had already made up her mind. If he saw her, he would stop her, ask questions, keep her here, and staying here meant danger.
Inside the apartment, Grant stepped cautiously across the threshold, his instincts immediately on high alert. It took him only a few seconds to realize that Frankie had not simply stepped out. The place had been torn apart. Drawers were overturned, belongings scattered everywhere, the unmistakable signs of a violent intrusion staring back at him. His jaw tightened as he pulled out his gun, sweeping the room with trained precision, uncertain if whoever had done this was still inside.
“Frankie, it’s Agent Cole,” he called out again, his voice firm but controlled. “Are you in there?”
He moved carefully through the living room, then the kitchen, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, then down the short hallway toward the bedroom. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and unsettling, and with every step he took, the certainty grew stronger. Frankie had been here, and now she was gone.
Of course Agent Cole had no idea that Frankie was already on her way to disappear, sitting behind the wheel of her car, forcing her breathing to slow as her hands tightened around the steering wheel. Inside the apartment, Grant continued his careful search, unaware that she was only moments away from slipping beyond his reach. As he moved through the living room, something immediately caught his attention, a single sheet of paper left in plain sight, clearly addressed to Frankie.
Grant did not touch it right away. His expression darkened as he read the words from a distance, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as the message registered in full. Someone wanted Frankie silent, and the threat could not have been clearer. If she spoke, she would be dead meat.
Without hesitation, Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, sliding them on carefully before handling anything. Only then did he pick up the letter, gripping it by the edges and examining it with professional focus. He placed it into a small evidence bag, already considering the possibility of fingerprints, fibers, or any trace that might lead him to whoever had gone this far to intimidate her.
The bag had barely been sealed when a sound drifted in through the open doorway, low, sharp, and unmistakable. The growl of a car’s exhaust. Grant stiffened, his head snapping toward the parking lot as recognition hit instantly. His eyes widened as he realized where the sound was coming from. There was no mistaking it now, it was the distinctive exhaust of a Subaru WRX.
Grant moved fast. He rushed outside, calling out her name as he reached the edge of the lot. “Frankie,” he shouted, urgency creeping into his voice. But the Subaru was already pulling away, tires rolling over gravel as the car accelerated toward the street. Frankie did not slow, did not turn back, and offered no explanation for her sudden departure.
The car vanished down the road in seconds, leaving Grant standing there, the evidence bag clenched in his gloved hand, the echo of the engine fading into silence. One thing was certain now, Frankie was running, and whatever she was running from had just become far more dangerous than he had feared.
Grant had no time to waste. The moment the Subaru vanished down the street, the fifty two year old man turned and sprinted back toward his Chevrolet Malibu, his pulse pounding with urgency. He yanked the driver’s door open and slid behind the wheel, starting the engine in one swift, practiced motion. The car roared to life as he threw it into gear, already scanning the road ahead, calculating where Frankie might be headed and how little time he had to react.
As the Malibu pulled out of the parking lot, Grant grabbed his handheld radio, bringing it up to his mouth while keeping one eye on traffic. His voice shifted instantly into professional command, calm but urgent, the tone of a man who knew every second mattered.
“Attention units in the area, this is Special Agent Grant Cole with the FBI,” he said clearly into the speaker. “Be advised, I am looking for a 2024 white Subaru WRX, believed to be driven by Frankie Callaway. She is a twenty five year old female, approximately one hundred sixty centimeters tall. She is a person of interest in an active federal investigation.”
He paused just long enough to make sure the channel was clear, then continued, emphasizing his next words.
“She is not to be approached aggressively. Do not discharge your weapon if you make contact. I repeat, do not shoot her. I need her alive and unharmed. No Sirens please!”
Grant released the speaker and tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he accelerated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Frankie was scared, running on instinct, and that made her unpredictable. If local units spotted her first, things could spiral out of control fast. He pushed the Malibu forward, determination hardening his features, knowing that finding her quickly might be the only thing standing between Frankie and a very real, very deadly outcome.
A patrol officer in the area received Grant’s message, and he was far from the only one listening in. The radio channel crackled with overlapping responses as nearby units acknowledged the broadcast.
“Copy that,” one of the officers replied, his voice cutting through the static.
Grant kept his focus on the road ahead, weaving carefully through traffic as his eyes scanned every intersection. Then he saw it, the white WRX in the distance, its clean lines unmistakable even from far away. Frankie was definitely in a hurry, the car moving faster than the flow of traffic, but Grant resisted the urge to push harder. The last thing he wanted was to scare her into making a reckless mistake. He did not want a chase, he did not want sirens, he only wanted to talk to her.
With one hand steady on the steering wheel, Grant reached for his phone and called her. He listened as it rang, once, twice, his jaw tightening with every second that passed. Then the call went to voicemail.
“Frankie, this is Grant,” he said, keeping his voice calm and controlled as he left the message. “I know you’re scared, and I get it, but running away isn’t the solution right now. If you’re in danger, we can put you under protection. You don’t have to do this alone, but disappearing is only going to make things worse.”
He ended the call with a frustrated breath, already knowing how useless the message probably was. Frankie was not about to pull over on the side of the road to listen to her voicemail, not when fear was driving every decision she made.
He ended the call and immediately switched back to his radio, not wasting another second. His gaze flicked toward the WRX as he relayed the details.
“Attention units, I have visuals on the vehicle. White Subaru WRX, license plate Charlie Seven Four Three Victor Papa, repeat, Charlie Seven Four Three Victor Papa. The vehicle is heading east, moderate speed, driver appears alone.”
And then, just as Grant had feared, the situation took a turn for the worse. A patrol car ahead caught sight of the WRX. Without hesitation, the officer flipped on the lights mounted on the roof, red and blue flashing brightly in the late morning light.
Grant swore under his breath as the siren chirped once, the sound slicing through the air. The lights would only alert Frankie, confirm her worst fears, and push her deeper into panic. Whatever chance Grant had of stopping her calmly was slipping away, replaced by flashing lights and the growing risk of everything spiraling out of control.
Frankie knew it now, deep in her bones, she had crossed the point of no return. There was no turning back, no pulling over to explain herself, no calm conversation waiting at the side of the road. She had seen her iPhone light up when Grant called her, the screen flashing his name like a warning, but she could not answer, not now. She had to disappear, had to outrun everyone, and that included the cops and the FBI agent who was far more persistent than she had expected. She just needed perfect timing, one clean opening, and the nerve to take it.
In her rearview mirror, the flashing lights appeared again, distant but unmistakable. A police cruiser was following her, keeping space, waiting for her to make a mistake. Frankie’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, but her pulse did not spike with fear. Instead, she flicked her eyes slightly to the side and caught sight of something else reflected behind her, Grant’s dark Malibu, steady and relentless, refusing to fall back.
And that was when it hit her.
Not because the police were after her, not because sirens were slicing through the air, but because he was; Grant Cole. The FBI agent who had looked at her like she was fragile, scared, someone who needed saving. Frankie felt a slow smirk curve her lips as she pressed the accelerator just a little more, feeling the WRX respond beneath her like it understood exactly what she wanted.
She imagined him behind the wheel, jaw tight, eyes sharp, probably furious with her for running, for refusing to listen, for slipping through his fingers when he had been so close. The thought made her chest warm with something dangerously close to satisfaction. She was not proud of it, but she was not ashamed either.
For once in her quiet, predictable life, Frankie felt truly alive. Not because she was driving recklessly, not because she was tempting fate, but because someone like Grant Cole was chasing her, focused entirely on her every move. She had spent so long being overlooked, underestimated, treated like a harmless little thing, and now she had his full attention.
Frankie shifted lanes smoothly, confident, precise, already counting the seconds in her head. She was not just a scared twenty five year old woman running in panic. She had a plan, she had skills, and she was about to prove it.
If Agent Cole thought this was going to be easy, she was more than happy to show him just how wrong he was.
Once again, her iPhone flashed insistently as Grant tried calling her again, the screen lighting up, but Frankie barely glanced at it. She shook her head with a grin, refusing to let the call distract her. Instead, she reached for the radio, needing sound that matched the chaos in her head, something to drown out the insistent ring. Luckily, the Bluetooth was disconnected, and the ringtone did not echo through the car speakers, leaving her free to control her own soundtrack.
She hit play, and suddenly the car was filled with the pounding, infectious beat of “Valerie” by Steve Winwood, remixed seamlessly with “Call Me” by Eric Prydz. The music surged through the cabin, rhythmic and relentless, syncing perfectly with her heartbeat. Frankie could not have been happier, a wide smirk spreading across her face as the tires gripped the asphalt and the engine purred beneath her like a living thing.
The traffic light ahead switched to red, but Frankie barely hesitated. She pressed the clutch and shifted gears fluidly, her foot dancing across the pedals with precision. She was not about to stop, not now, not when the world seemed to shrink to the space between her car and the road. Behind her, she caught a glimpse of the police cruiser, tires squealing as it tried to follow her lead, but she was already thinking three moves ahead.
With a sharp twist of the handbrake, Frankie swung the WRX wide, the rear end of the car pivoting perfectly as she slipped into the opposite lane, taking the unexpected path with effortless skill. The police car swerved to compensate, wheels screeching, but it was too late. Frankie accelerated, the tires gripping the asphalt like glue, music pounding in her ears, adrenaline flooding her veins. Every twist of the wheel, every change of gear, every calculated swerve reminded her of exactly why she was alive, why she loved this moment, and why she would never let anyone control her.
Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching the red and blue lights dancing like fire in her reflection, but instead of fear, a thrill ran through her. She was in command, fast, precise, untouchable for now, and she knew that Agent Cole and the cops were about to realize that she was not just a girl in a car, she was a driver, a master of her own escape, and she intended to enjoy every second of it.
Agent Cole was not finding the show Frankie was giving at all amusing. The WRX hugged the curves of the road with precision, tires squealing softly over asphalt, weaving between cars and dodging obstacles like it was an extension of her own body. Every instinct in Grant’s body screamed at him to intervene, to take control, to stop this dangerous display, but as much as he hated to admit it, she was handling that car like no one he had ever seen before. Every shift of gears, every press of the clutch, every subtle counter-steer spoke of skill, control, and confidence that defied her twenty five years.
Once again, he grabbed his handheld radio, voice taut with authority and urgency.
“Special Agent Grant Cole in here, all units, do not pursue her! She is in a panic! Stop immediately and do not continue driving after her!”
His words crackled across the channels, but the response was anything but compliant. Some officers hesitated, but others kept their sirens blazing, tires squealing as they tried to close the gap. The chase had become a chaotic ballet, a dangerous game in which Frankie was clearly the lead.
Grant’s jaw tightened as he realized that no one was going to obey his instructions. She was not stopping, not slowing, not giving anyone a chance to catch her. With a muttered curse, he pressed the accelerator hard, the Malibu lurching forward with determination. Every fiber of his body focused on keeping up, eyes locked on the WRX weaving ahead, but the more he pushed, the clearer it became.
Frankie was not panicking. She was orchestrating every movement with uncanny precision, each turn, each lane change, each brake and acceleration perfectly timed. The WRX responded instantly to her touch, the manual gearbox shifting smoothly under her practiced hands. Even Grant, an experienced driver, felt the pang of awe and frustration. He would never have been able to drive a manual like that under this kind of pressure, navigating traffic at breakneck speed while keeping her composure intact.
Every twist and turn Frankie made seemed to taunt him, daring him to follow, daring him to try and match her control. And even as the sirens wailed and the red and blue lights bounced off nearby buildings, Grant knew that for the first time, he was not chasing a frightened woman. He was chasing a force of nature, a driver in full command of herself and the car, and it was exhilarating in the most infuriating way possible.
When the song “Valerie” transitioned seamlessly into “Call Me” by Eric Prydz, Frankie felt a surge of adrenaline that made her heart pound in time with the beat. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw Grant Cole’s dark Malibu closing in, relentless, a shadow on her tail that only made the rush of excitement sharper. The streets of Downtown Salt Lake City were unfolding before her like a playground, chaotic, full of obstacles and possibilities, and she navigated each turn, each lane change, with a precision that made her smirk uncontrollably.
She was careful, yes, but she could not deny the thrill of being out of control yet completely in command at the same time. The exhilaration was intoxicating, far beyond anything she had ever experienced, a raw, sharp rush that made her senses sharpen and her reflexes sharpen even more. Every glance at the rearview mirror, every calculated swerve, every press of the gas pedal fed into a sensation that was better than anything she could imagine, almost as if it rivaled the strongest pleasure she had ever felt.
And then, as if fate had timed it perfectly, she spotted the train in the distance. Two kilometers ahead, massive and unavoidable, the rails cutting across the streets like a barrier waiting to test her skills. Her mind snapped into action. This was the opportunity she needed, the perfect moment to disappear and force Grant and the other officers to hesitate.
Frankie’s plan formed quickly, precise and ruthless in its simplicity. She would cross the railway before the train arrived, timing it so perfectly that the barriers would drop behind her, trapping Grant and the police in a temporary standstill. It was risky, incredibly risky, but Frankie thrived on risk. She could feel her pulse in her ears, the WRX responding like an extension of her body as she prepared herself mentally, mapping every second in advance.
She could not afford a single mistake. One misjudged speed, one wrong angle, one delayed reaction, and the entire plan could collapse, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. Every nerve in her body was alert, every muscle tense, her eyes scanning the approaching train, the barriers, the lanes of traffic. The thrill was almost overwhelming, but Frankie loved it, loved the fact that she was the one setting the rules, the one controlling the chaos, and the one who could leave Grant Cole stunned and trailing in her wake.
The city stretched out before her, full of lights, sounds, and potential hazards, yet she felt untouchable, a master of her car, her timing, and her fate. Now all she needed was perfect execution, and Frankie was determined to give it.
The rain began to fall from the sky, soft at first, barely more than a drizzle, but enough to glisten on the asphalt and reflect the city lights. It did nothing to scare Frankie. She felt alive, exhilarated, and completely in control as the drops dotted the windshield and bounced off the hood of the WRX. At twenty five years old, she had never felt this much thrill in her life, her heart hammering in perfect rhythm with the pulse of the music still blasting through her speakers.
Frankie was not the only one who had noticed the train in the distance. Grant spotted it as well, the long line of steel wheels glinting under the gray morning sky. His stomach sank as he realized immediately what Frankie had in mind. She was not panicking, she was calculating, she was orchestrating, and she was speeding straight toward the railway crossing like it was part of some twisted game.
“Hell no, she’s crazy!” Grant shouted, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, fear and disbelief flooding him in equal measure. He knew the risks, he knew the timing had to be precise, and he feared the worst. Without hesitation, he grabbed his handheld radio, the urgency in his voice sharp, commanding, desperate.
“Lower the barriers immediately, she’s driving toward the railway! I repeat, lower the barriers now!”
The voice of an officer crackled through the radio, confirming that the message had been received. Grant could hear the tension in the man’s voice, but deep down, he had a gnawing feeling that it might be useless. Frankie had always been fast, and right now, she was proving him completely wrong, outsmarting him in a way that left him both frustrated and awestruck. The thought that a woman old enough to be his daughter could pull this off made him grind his teeth, adrenaline and anger surging together.
The radio came alive again, this time with a precise, clipped broadcast by an officer.
Be advised, a 2024 white Subaru WRX, driven by Franceska Ann Callaway, a twenty-five-year-old female, is approaching the railway crossing at 400 North near 500 West. Barriers must be lowered immediately. I repeat, a 2024 white Subaru WRX driven by Franceska Ann Callaway is heading toward the railway crossing. Lower the barriers at once.”
Even with the warning issued, Grant knew deep down that it would not stop her. She was already in motion, calculating every turn, every second, every meter between herself and the tracks. The rain slicked roads reflected the red and blue lights of the police cars behind her, but she barely noticed them, her mind focused entirely on the tracks ahead and the perfect execution of her audacious plan.
Grant’s heart pounded in his chest as he followed her, knowing that even with all his training, all his experience, this was not going to be easy. Frankie was not just a driver; she was a force of nature, fearless, reckless, and brilliant, and right now, there was nothing he could do to stop the thrill she was about to unleash.
Just as Grant had feared and expected, Frankie crossed the barriers with flawless timing, the WRX gliding over the asphalt just seconds before the train thundered across the tracks, steel wheels clanging and sparks flying where the rails met. The barriers had failed to lower before Frankie’s arrival, no matter how urgently Grant had demanded it over the radio, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, it seemed like chaos itself had conspired to let her slip through.
Grant and the other officers arrived at the railway almost simultaneously, tires squealing on wet pavement, engines echoing in the crisp morning air, but it was already too late. The train roared across the crossing, the massive cars shaking the ground beneath them, blocking any hope of immediate pursuit. Frankie had disappeared to the other side, her WRX parked neatly, engine still warm, as if it had been there all along.
Just as Frankie crossed the railway, the remix of Valerie blended with Call on Me cut off at the perfect moment, the final beat silenced as if the song itself knew she had made it across. The sudden quiet inside the car felt almost unreal, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and her own ragged breathing.
Frankie was on the other side, if one could call it that, still seated in her car with trembling hands resting tightly on the steering wheel. Her pulse hammered in her ears, loud enough to drown out the distant sounds of sirens fading behind her. The engine idled beneath her, vibrating through the seat, a constant reminder that escape was still possible, at least for now. She forced herself to breathe, slow and deliberate, even as adrenaline surged through her veins.
A grin was plastered across her face, uncontrollable and almost reckless, because she knew she had done it. The cops, along with Grant Cole, were trapped on the other side of the railway, cut off and powerless to follow her. For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Frankie felt the intoxicating rush of control. She had outsmarted them, manipulated the situation, and turned the chase in her favor.
She knew the consequences would be brutal. There was no illusion of safety, no comforting lies she could tell herself. She was in trouble, real trouble, the kind that did not fade with distance or time. But in that moment, pride outweighed fear. She had shown Agent Cole exactly what she was capable of, and had forced him to see her not as a frightened girl on the run, but as someone dangerous, clever, and unpredictable.
Her thoughts drifted to him, uninvited yet persistent. Grant Cole was no ordinary man. He was seasoned, relentless, sharp in ways that both fascinated and terrified her. He was also old enough to be her father, a fact that should have repelled her, should have made the twist in her stomach feel wrong. Instead, it only complicated everything.
Frankie’s grip tightened on the wheel as she stared out through the windshield, rain-streaked city lights blurring into streaks of color. She had crossed a line, one she could never uncross. Whatever came next, whatever price she would be forced to pay, she had already proven one thing to herself and to Grant Cole.
She was not running anymore.
She was playing the game.
Grant leapt from the Malibu, adrenaline surging through his veins as his eyes scanned the scene. And then he saw her. Frankie was standing next to her car, the rain slicking her dark blonde hair, droplets clinging to her skin and reflecting the flickering light of the train cars as they passed. Through the long, empty stretch of metal and motion, he caught a glimpse of her smirk, sharp, teasing, almost daring him to do something, anything.
There was no fear in her expression, none of the hesitation he had expected from someone running from the FBI. Instead, there was something entirely different, something electric, almost magnetic. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, alive in a way that made his chest tighten. Grant could feel the thrill radiating from her, the audacity, the reckless confidence, and far from knowing how much she had just fed off the danger, far from realizing that she was experiencing a heady mix of fear and desire, she was daring him with every glance.
He could not see the full depth of what she felt, could not sense the longing, the pulse of adrenaline mingled with something far more personal and intimate. All he knew was that this woman, barely twenty five, had just danced past disaster with a smile, and in that moment, she was untouchable, exhilarating, and impossibly alive.
Grant’s jaw tightened as he studied her stance, as he registered the audacity and precision of her escape. Frankie had not just outrun the train, she had orchestrated it, turned it into her own stage, and he was left standing there, watching her thrive in chaos that would have destroyed anyone else.
As the barriers slowly lifted back into their upright positions, the WRX was already gone, swallowed by the maze of downtown streets, leaving only the faint echo of its engine and the lingering spray of rain on the asphalt. Grant’s chest tightened with frustration. He could not pursue her further, she had vanished too quickly, her skills behind the wheel and her timing with the train making her untouchable. He was angry, not at Frankie, not exactly, but at the other officers who had mishandled the chase, who had turned a controlled operation into chaos, who had given her the edge she needed to slip away.
Grant stormed toward one of the officers still standing beside his patrol car, his steps fast, purposeful, each one a manifestation of his mounting irritation. He did not waste time warming up, his voice sharp and cutting through the drizzle like a blade.
“I specifically asked for no sirens! You alarmed her and now I’ve lost her!”
The young officer shifted uncomfortably, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, unsure how to respond to the fury radiating from the agent in front of him.
“We’re sorry, we thought—” the officer began, but Grant cut him off mid-sentence, his patience fraying faster than the rain-soaked asphalt beneath their feet.
“Thought what, exactly?” Grant snapped, turning sharply toward the young officer. “That she was just going to be arrested and processed like this was routine? This is an FBI investigation.” His voice was firm, unforgiving, but there was an edge beneath it, frustration mixed with something far more dangerous, concern. He shook his head slowly, as if disappointed, as if the mistake should never have been made in the first place. Continuing the argument was pointless, they were already behind, and Grant had far bigger problems to deal with, problems that now had Frankie’s name written all over them.
Without another word, Grant turned sharply and walked back to his Malibu, the rain clinging to his coat, soaking the edges of his sleeves, and the roar of the city around him fading into a low hum as he climbed behind the wheel. He knew exactly what he needed to do next. First, he had to call his supervisor, explain the debacle, and make sure Frankie’s situation was officially logged. Then, and perhaps more urgently, he had to visit Bobby, the only person who might have clues about her whereabouts, the only person who could help him untangle the mess Frankie had left behind. Before that, though, he needed to get agents to Frankie’s apartment to comb through the scene, collecting prints and any traces that might have been left behind by those who had ransacked her place, every detail a potential lead in the unraveling chaos.
He started the engine, the low growl of the Malibu filling the small moment of silence around him, and with a deep, controlled breath, Grant Cole drove off, already calculating his next moves, already planning how he would find Frankie before the city swallowed her completely.
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