Cara's window stayed dark. The street stayed empty. The ocean kept its rhythm.
Gabe's head dropped forward.
The last thing he registered before sleep dragged him under was the pale glow of the bakery's siding. The dark rectangle of her window.
Still hiding secrets he needed to uncover.
Lord, keep her safe. Keep David safe. Help me finish this.
The prayer drifted through his fading consciousness like smoke.
Then nothing but darkness and the distant sound of waves.
11
The Saturday morningrush hit like a wave Cara wasn't prepared for.
She'd been up since four-thirty, moving through the pre-dawn darkness on autopilot and two hours of sleep. Flour. Water. Yeast. Salt. The sourdough starter that needed feeding. Muffin batter that required her hands to work even when her brain felt wrapped in cotton.
When she'd come downstairs, key trembling in her hand and every shadow looking suspicious, she'd sworn she saw Gabe's black SUV pulling away.
But exhaustion––and guilt––played tricks. Made you see threats that weren't there.
You're paranoid. He's not watching you.
Except she'd felt watched all morning.
Through the mixing and kneading. Through shaping loaves and filling muffin tins. Through the first pale light creeping across the ocean and turning the bakery windows from black mirrors to gray squares showing Main Street coming alive.
She'd locked the front door twice before opening. Checked the back entrance three times. Jumped when the oven timer went off.
Now it was eight-thirty, and the place was packed with the usual Saturday crowd, and she still couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were tracking her movements.
Pearl wanted two loaves of sourdough, her tall frame draped in a hand-knit cardigan that smelled faintly of lavender. The Hendersons needed a dozen muffins for their church potluck, their matching windbreakers rustling as they debated blueberry versus cranberry. Three tourists wandered in looking for "something authentic" and left with cranberry scones they'd probably Instagram before eating.
Cara smiled. Wrapped orders in wax paper with hands that wanted to shake. Made change from the register that seemed too loud when it opened. Pretended the notebook wasn't sitting in the drawer behind the counter like a loaded gun.
She'd read through it twice last night. Ruiz had been thorough. Dates. Times. Meeting locations. Notes about boat schedules and shipping manifests. And David Sawyer's initials appearing over and over.
Nothing about her. Nothing about Carly Reid or securities fraud or witness protection deals gone wrong.
The relief had been overwhelming.
Until she realized what giving the notebook to Gabe would cost her. The questions he'd ask. The lies she'd have to tell. The risk that one slip would unravel everything.
The espresso machine hissed. Steam fogged the window behind the counter. The smell of fresh bread and coffee should have been comforting. Instead it made her stomach clench.
"You look terrible." Piper appeared at her elbow, armsloaded with dirty coffee mugs from the corner tables. The seventeen-year-old had shown up twenty minutes ago wearing ripped jeans, a flannel shirt three sizes too big, and her signature rainbow beanie pulled low over dark hair still damp from a morning shower. "Like, seriously. Have you been baking all night or something?"
"Long morning." Cara took the mugs and loaded them into the dishwasher. Her fingers fumbled with the rack. Metal clanged against ceramic. "Thanks for coming in."
"It's Saturday. What else am I gonna do?" Piper grabbed a rag and started wiping down tables. "Besides, the tips are good. Mrs. Henderson just gave me five bucks for bringing her extra napkins."
"That's because you're charming."
"I know." Piper grinned over her shoulder. "It's a gift."
The bell above the door chimed.
