"Oh. Um. Lucky guess?"
His eyes narrowed. "Most people would've seen a drowning victim. You saw ligature marks."
"My brain just... notices things. Occupational hazard."
One eyebrow lifted fractionally. "You're a baker."
"Yes. Exactly. Baking requires noticing things. Like, you know, if the dough is over-proofed or the oven temperature is wrong or if—"Stop talking."—things."
Nailed it, Cara. Perfectly convincing.
He set the coffee down without drinking it.
Cara hated how effective the silence was. She’d used the same technique a million times during cons. Torture the mark with silence until they rushed to fill it. Create discomfort, let the subject fill the void, usually byagreeing to whatever scam she and her team were trying to drag them into.
Yeah, she knew exactly what he was doing, and yet it still worked.
She gripped the edge of the counter to keep from fidgeting. From explaining. From giving him anything else to analyze.
The espresso machine hissed behind her.
"Have you ever worked in law enforcement?" His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. Which somehow made it worse.
Her heart stuttered, then kicked into overdrive.
"Me? No. Absolutely not." The words tumbled out too fast. "I wouldn't even know how to file a police report. I mean, I'm sure there's paperwork involved. Government forms are so complicated, right? Not that I?—"
Stop. Talking.
His eyebrow lifted again. "I find that hard to believe."
She forced a smile that felt like it might crack her face in half. "Trust me. I'm extremely non-official. Very civilian. Super not-law-enforcement-related."
He studied her for a long moment. She could see him filing away every nervous tell, every too-quick response.
Then the FBI agent mask slipped just enough to show the scared brother underneath.
"My brother's missing." His voice carried a vulnerability that hit her like a physical blow. "If you know anything…."
This wasn't an interrogation technique. This was real. Raw.
"Walk me through it again," he said. "The victim. What exactly did he ask you?"
Cara's stomach dropped. "I already told you?—"
"I know. But sometimes details surface on the second pass."
He wasn’t wrong. She swallowed and forced herself torecall that afternoon three weeks ago. "He came in close to closing. Ordered coffee and asked if I'd lived here long. General small talk."
"And then?"
"Then he asked about the marina. Who ran it, if I knew the history of the docks. Whether there'd been any unusual activity lately." She shook her head. "I told him I didn't know much. I've only been here six months. He seemed disappointed but didn't push."
Gabe's jaw tightened. "Unusual activity. Those were his words?"
"Yes."
"Did he mention anyone by name? Any specific boats or businesses?"
