Cara crossed to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Drank it. Refilled it.
Pull it together. You've done worse. You've survived worse.
She grabbed the notepad from her pocket, sat at the kitchen table and started reading.
DS. David Sawyer. Had to be. The initials appeared multiple times, always with dates and times. Meeting locations. The overlook. A warehouse near the docks. Coordinates that meant nothing to her without a map.
Ruiz had been tracking someone. He documented boat schedules. Shipping manifests. Names she didn't recognize but that clearly meant something to the PI.
She flipped through page after page. Her heart rate slowly returning to normal as the pattern became clear. Not even a mention of his visit to the bakery.
This wasn't about her. The PI hadn't known she existed.
The relief hit her like a physical wave. Her shoulders sagged. Her eyes burned.
Thank You. Thank You thank You thank You.
The prayer was fervent. Genuine. The kind that came from the deepest part of her soul.
Her carefully constructed new life was still safe.
Mostly.
She looked at the notebook again. Read through the notes with fresh eyes. David Sawyer had been in Haven Cove. He hired Ruiz.
Cara closed the notebook slowly.
She had to give this to Gabe. Tomorrow. First thing.
But first, she needed a story. One good enough to con a smart field agent. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling as ideas floated past. Finally, a play occurred to her.
Yeah. She could sell that. She'd sold worse.
The con artist brain that never really shut off spun through possibilities. Tested angles. Found the story that would hold up under scrutiny from a man trained to spot lies.
It would work. It had to.
10
The clockon the dash read 2:17 AM when Gabe pulled onto Main Street.
Haven Cove looked like a postcard of small-town America at rest. Dark storefronts. Empty sidewalks. Streetlights casting pools of amber across pavement still slick from earlier fog. The ocean's rhythm played steady and low beyond the marina, waves folding against pilings with the patient insistence of something that had been doing this for millennia.
The bakery sat dark. No lights in the windows. No movement visible in the alley behind it where wooden stairs climbed to her second-floor apartment. Just the building's pale siding catching ambient light, making it glow faintly against the surrounding darkness.
Gabe parked across the street near the marina. Killed the engine. The sudden silence felt oppressive after an hour of road noise and his own ragged thoughts chasing each other in circles.
Salt air drifted through his cracked window. Cold. Clean. Laced with the bite of seaweed and diesel fuel from the fishing boats. He breathed it in and felt nothing ease.
His hands ached. He looked down and realized he'd been gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave marks in his palms.
Just go up there. Pound on the door. Demand the notebook.
The thought was tempting. Satisfying even.
Also stupid.
He forced himself to unclench his fists. He needed to think like an agent instead of a desperate brother.
