Like something was wrong.
She scanned the alley below. Reagan's SUV, engine idling as Reagan waited for her to wave goodbye. The dumpster bythe back entrance. Shadows that could hide a dozen threats or nothing at all.
No movement. No sound except waves hitting the beach two blocks over.
It's nothing. Just stress. Just Gabe. Just everything catching up.
She shook it off and unlocked the door, then turned and waved to Reagan, giving her a forced thumbs-up that she hoped looked more confident than it felt.
Reagan waved back and pulled away, taillights disappearing around the corner.
Cara stepped inside her apartment, shut the door, and threw the deadbolt.
Everything looked normal. Her hoodie lay over the back of couch, exactly where she'd left it. The kitchen counter was clean, her coffee mug from this morning still sitting by the sink.
Only it felt…wrong. There was nothing she could put her finger on, but the space felt odd. Changed.
She exhaled slowly, trying to calm her nerves. She’d been on overdrive for days now, even since Ruiz’s body washed up on the beach. And that didn’t count the months she’d been on the run.
The twinge was still there. Faint. Persistent. Like white noise she couldn't quite tune out: not specific enough to identify, or strong enough to act on.
Just strong enough to follow her into the bedroom as she changed into pajamas and brushed her teeth and tried to convince herself that tomorrow would be better.
Just strong enough to haunt the edges of her sleep when she finally crawled into bed and closed her eyes.
14
Cara’sfour-thirty alarm felt like it came earlier than usual.
After stumbling into her clothes, she shuffled down the stairs in fuzzy socks shoved into old clogs, already mentally running through the morning's baking schedule. Sourdough first. Then the cranberry scones. Cinnamon rolls if she had time.
She reached for the bakery door handle, but stopped, hand a breath away.
The smell hit her first. Not the usual warm yeast and lingering cinnamon. Something sharp. Chaotic. Spilled vanilla extract. Almond flavoring. The funk of over-proofed dough.
Hands shaking, she flicked on the lights.
Her stomach dropped straight through the floor.
The bakery was destroyed.
Cupboards hung crooked, some ripped completely off the wall. Shelves overturned. Bulk flour bins smashed open, white powder coating everything like snow after an apocalypse. Her industrial mixer knocked on its side. Spicesscattered. Coffee grounds everywhere, swirled through the maple syrup pooled across the prep counter.
Footprints tracked through the flour. Deep. Heavy. Clear.
Cara's knees threatened to buckle. She gripped the edge of a table, her fingers coming away gritty with flour and something sticky.
The basement.
She forced herself down the stairs. Each step crunched on broken plastic. The air was colder here. Damper. The smell of spilled baking soda mixed with wet cardboard and defrosting fruit.
Worse than upstairs.
Shelves toppled. Ingredient bags slashed cleanly open. Insulation pulled out of the walls. The emergency freezer unplugged, condensation pooling beneath it.
Cara climbed back upstairs, her hands shaking, and pulled out her phone.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
