Paradise. If paradise involved getting up at 4 AM to bake pastries that could double as construction material. Though on occasion, she managed to achieve bread nirvana.
The absence of city noise still caught her off guard. Like the world was holding its breath. Or maybe that was just her, waiting for her past to find her.
Half a year of playing Cara Sweet, small-town baker. She'd gotten pretty good at it. Even the baking part. Ish.
"Lord, thank You for this sanctuary," she murmured, then glanced at the kitchen behind her where batch number three of the morning's croissants glistened, only slightly over-baked. "Though if You could help me with the actual baking, that would be great."
The prayer came easier now than six months ago. Less like she was faking it, more like talking to someone who might actually be listening. Someone who didn't judge her for the seventeen different ways she knew how to forge a signature.
Her shoulders ached from hauling fifty-pound flour bags yesterday. Who knew the bags were so large? Or that there were twelve different types? Or that using the wrong one would result in what her teenaged afternoon helper, Piper, had dubbed "death biscuits"?
Inside, three industrial ovens hummed. Two with sourdough that generally sold out these days. One with croissants that were way more edible than the batches she’d made in June. The scent of butter and yeast drifted through the open door, mixed with just a hint of "what's burning?"
Or maybe that was just her bakery PTSD.
She took a long sip of coffee—the one thing she could reliably make properly. Probably because it didn't involve yeast. Yeast was her nemesis. Yeast was evil. Yeast had opinions.
At least Agnes was cooperating today. Agnes—her sourdough starter—had finally decided to stop being difficult after weeks of careful feeding and what Cara was pretty sure counted as negotiation. The dough had the right elasticity, the perfect subtle sheen. Like a con finally coming together.
Not that she thought about cons anymore.
Much.
From her elevated position on the deck, she could see thewhole sweep of the beach. To her left, the marina's weathered pilings rose from the water like fingers. Beyond them, boats bobbed between the breakwater and Haven Creek. To her right, the town's main street ran parallel to the shore—all two blocks of it.
She traced escape routes automatically. Back stairs to the alley. Front entrance through Main Street. Over the deck railing—eight-foot drop to sand, tuck and roll to avoid injury. From there: marina (steal a boat), town (steal a car), or straight into the water (terrible plan, but better than capture).
She winced. Normal people didn't map escape routes from their own decks every morning.
Movement by the water caught her eye.
Husky, quiet, Wade Patterson stood at the tide line, hands in the pockets of his worn fishing jacket, head tilted slightly like he was considering whether the morning catch would be worth the effort. Casual. Unconcerned.
Except his feet were planted exactly shoulder-width apart. Weight balanced. Ready to move in any direction.
And he wasn't looking at the conditions. He was looking at something in the surf.
Not your problem. Not your business. You're a baker. Bakers don't investigate things. Bakers bake.
Her feet carried her down the wooden steps anyway, the boards creaking under her weight. Old habits. The need-to-know what danger might be coming for her.
The sand was cold and damp through her shoes—she'd forgotten she was wearing her good sneakers. Well, her only sneakers that didn't have flour permanently embedded in the fabric.
"Wade?" She pitched her voice carefully. Mild concern. Just his small-town neighbor checking in.
He turned slowly, like someone who'd just noticed theweather was changing. "Morning, Cara." His voice carried that particular Pacific Northwest drawl he'd perfected. Not quite Alaska, not quite Oregon. Carefully nowhere. "Kinda early for a beach walk."
"Saw you from the deck." She kept moving closer, letting her eyes go wide as she saw what he'd been looking at. "Is that?—?"
"Yup." He scratched his jaw, the picture of mild discomfort. "Was heading over to the marina. Found him instead."
She let out a small gasp. Pressed a hand to her chest. Took a half-step back like any normal person would when confronted with death. All the while checking every detail.
A body, floating close to shore in less than two feet of water, on his back. Male, medium build, dark hair. Expensive clothes—designer jeans and a thick sweater under a puffy vest. Bruising on the wrists where they showed above the water line. Purple-black. Eight to twelve hours old. Rope, not zip ties. The body positioned face-down but at an angle that suggested dragging, not floating. Sand patterns inconsistent with tidal deposit.
Lord, wrap him in your mercy.She didn't add the third part—Lord, please help me if this connects to my past—but thought it anyway.
"Should we pull him out?" she asked, making sure her voice carried exactly the right tremor. "He's so close to shore. Maybe he's still?—"
