The first week in the safe house was purgatory.
Sophia couldn't work not really. She'd set up her portable easel, tried to focus on commissions, but her hands wouldn't cooperate. Every brushstroke felt forced, lifeless. Her subjects stared back at her from the canvas with dead eyes.
The problem was that she kept painting the same face. Sharp cheekbones. Intense eyes. That cruel smile.
Maya had to return to her job after three days, leaving Sophia alone with rotating shifts of police officers who treated her with professional courtesy but obvious boredom. They were babysitters, and she was a burden.
Detective Rivera stopped by daily with updates, though "update" was generous. Cross hadn't been arrested. Torres's murder investigation was ongoing. The forensics team had found three bullets in Torres's apartment, blood evidence, signs of struggle but Cross's lawyers were spinning it as self-defense. Torres had a criminal record. Cross was a decorated security professional. The DA wasn't confident about conviction.
"What about me?" Sophia signed during Rivera's visit on day six. "What I saw?"
"Eyewitness testimony is complicated," Rivera said, and Sophia hated the sympathy in his eyes. "Especially in self-defense cases. Cross's lawyers will argue that you couldn't hear what was said, couldn't know the full context, that lip-reading isn't reliable"
"It is reliable!" Sophia's signs were sharp. "I know what I saw!"
"I believe you," Rivera said. "But a jury? That's different. They'll have expert witnesses testifying that lip-reading has a 30-40% accuracy rate under optimal conditions. That you were watching from across a courtyard, at night, through two layers of glass. That fear and stress can distort perception and memory."
"So I'm useless."
"You're our best chance," Rivera corrected. "But we need more than just your testimony. We're working every angle Torres's phone records, financial transactions, security footage from the building. We'll find something."
But would they find it before Cross found her?
That night, alone in the safe house, Sophia checked her phone obsessively. No new messages from the unknown number. No threats. No contact.
Somehow, that was worse. The waiting. The wondering.
She was scrolling through news sites when she found the article: Security Consultant Questioned in Tragic Self-Defense Shooting.
The piece painted Cross as a victim almost as much as Torres. He'd been "forced to defend himself" against a "known criminal with organized crime connections." The article included Cross's official statement, delivered through his lawyers:
"I'm devastated by the loss of life. Michael Torres contacted me claiming to have information about threats against my clients. When we met, he became aggressive and violent. I feared for my life. The fact that someone witnessed this tragic event from their apartment only confirms the horror of the situation. I hope they're receiving the counseling and support they need."
Sophia wanted to throw her phone across the room. He was controlling the narrative, painting himself as sympathetic, making her sound like a traumatized witness who needed "counseling."
She was still fuming when Maya video-called.
"Did you see the article?" Maya signed.
"Unfortunately."
"He's a sociopath." Maya's face was tight with anger. "And his lawyers are worse. They're already trying to discredit you."
"How?"
Maya hesitated. "There's a blog post. Some 'crime analysis' site. Questioning whether a deaf witness can accurately testify to what they saw. They don't name you, but"
"But everyone knows it's me."
"Sophia, this isn't your fault"
"I know." But it felt like her fault. Felt like by witnessing the murder, she'd somehow brought this nightmare into her life. "Maya, I can't stay here forever. I have bills, clients, a life"
"You'll have to stay longer," Maya cut in gently. "Rivera called me. Cross has been asking around about you. Talking to your neighbors, the landlord, the coffee shop on your corner. Casual questions, friendly neighbor stuff. But he's gathering information."
"About me?"
"About you. Your schedule, your friends, where you go. He's building a profile."
Sophia's stomach dropped. "To do what?"
Maya's expression said she didn't want to answer. "I don't know. But it's not good."
After they hung up, Sophia sat in the dark living room, feeling the walls of her safe house closing in. She was trapped. Cross was free, out there, learning everything about her while she hid.
This wasn't protection. This was postponement.
Eventually, she'd have to testify. Would have to face Cross in court, identify him, let his lawyers tear apart her credibility. And then what? Even if he was convicted, he'd know where she lived, where she worked, where she existed in the world.
She'd never be safe again.
The thought was suffocating.
Sophia moved to the window, looked out at the dark street. The safe house was on a residential block, mostly families, quiet. A cat prowled past a porch light. A car drove by slowly.
Too slowly.
Sophia's pulse quickened. The car dark sedan, tinted windows was creeping past the house. Once. Twice. Three times.
She grabbed her burner phone, texted Rivera: Car circling the safe house. Dark sedan.
The response came immediately: On my way. Stay inside. Away from windows.
Sophia ducked back, heart pounding. Watched through a crack in the curtain as the sedan made another pass. It stopped directly in front of the safe house, idling.
Where were the officers? They were supposed to be stationed outside.
The car's passenger window rolled down. Sophia couldn't see the driver, but she saw the phone held up, pointed at the house. Taking photos?
Then the sedan drove away.
Rivera arrived ten minutes later with backup, but the car was long gone. The uniformed officers who were supposed to be watching the house had been doing a perimeter check perfectly timed for someone who knew their schedule.
"This wasn't random," Rivera said, his face grim. "Someone found you."
"How?" Sophia signed. "This was supposed to be safe."
"We don't know. But we're moving you again. Tonight."
"To where?"
"Somewhere even I won't know about," Rivera said. "FBI's taking over. Witness protection protocols."
"FBI?" Maya, who'd rushed over after Sophia's panicked text, looked between them. "This is witness protection now? For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
The second safe house was in Westchester, a bland apartment complex that looked like every other bland apartment complex in America. Sophia had a studio unit on the third floor, generic furniture, a handler named Agent Sarah Chen who checked in daily.
No one knew where she was. Not Maya. Not her family. No one.
She'd been disappeared.
The isolation was crushing. Sophia had always been self-sufficient her deafness had taught her that but this was different. This was prison disguised as protection.
Days blurred together. She tried to paint, but inspiration was dead. Tried to read, but couldn't focus. Mostly she stared at walls and waited for Agent Chen's daily visits, the only human contact she had.
On day twelve, Chen arrived with news.
"We found something," she said, face carefully neutral. "Torres kept records. Insurance, he called it. Files on all his criminal associates, including the people who hired Cross."
"That's good, right?" Sophia signed.
"It's complicated. The files implicate some very powerful people. Politicians, business moguls, even a few law enforcement officials. Cross wasn't just a hired gun he was a cleaner. Took out problems for people who couldn't afford loose ends."
"Like Torres."
"Like Torres," Chen confirmed. "The DA is building a RICO case now. Cross, his clients, the whole network. But it's going to take months. Maybe years."
"And I'm supposed to stay hidden for years?"
"You're supposed to stay alive," Chen said bluntly. "These people don't leave witnesses. Torres learned that the hard way."
After Chen left, Sophia sat on her generic couch in her generic apartment, feeling her life slip away. She was 28 years old. She had a career, friends, a whole existence. And now she was a ghost, erased, locked away for her own safety.
All because she'd been looking out her window at the wrong moment.
Her phone buzzed the burner Chen had given her. Another unknown number.
Still alive, Sophia? Good. We're not done yet.
Sophia's blood went cold. She forwarded the message to Chen immediately.
The response came an hour later: Number is a burner. Untraceable. How did they get your number?
That was the question, wasn't it? How did they keep finding her? The safe house locations, her phone numbers, everything that was supposed to be secure.
There was only one answer: someone was leaking.
Someone in law enforcement, someone who knew where she was and how to reach her, was feeding information to Cross.
Or Cross was so connected, so powerful, that he could access anything he wanted.
Either way, Sophia realized with horrible clarity, she would never be safe.
Not in witness protection. Not in hiding. Not anywhere.
As long as Damien Cross was alive and free, she was prey.
And he was the hunter who always caught what he chased.