Cara's phone buzzed. She read the message. Hesitated.
Gabe watched the conflict play across her features. The instinct to hide. To handle this alone. To push everyone away.
"She should know."
Cara's head snapped up. Caught. Her eyes tracked him with sudden wariness. "How do you know she's my friend?"
The question came too fast. Too sharp. Like she'd just realized he'd been watching her more closely than she'd thought.
He should lie. Keep his distance.
"Same age. Same town. Both run businesses." The excuse sounded weak. "You seem close."
“Kind of.” She looked back at her phone. “I should text her.”
Cara set down her phone, wrapped both hands around her cold tea, and stared at the destruction.
Lord, I don't know what I'm doing here. But help me figure out if she's a victim or a suspect before someone else gets hurt. Before David dies, if he’s not already gone.
"They're coming back," he said. "You know that, right?"
She flinched, but he pressed harder, needing her to get how much danger she was in. "They didn’t find what they wanted in Ruiz’s room. Now they’ve searched here and came up empty again." He held her gaze. Let her see the certainty in his eyes. "Next time they'll make you help. I'm not letting that happen."
Not just because she might have information about David.
But because somewhere in the past forty-eight hours, Cara Sweet had become his to protect whether he trusted her or not.
16
Pale orange lightwashed through the shattered front windows.
Cara stood by the counter, broom in hand, heart hammering against her ribs. Her eyes kept drifting to the back door, half-expecting shadows to shift into men with heavy boots and searching hands.
Gabe monitored the street through the front window, tense and coiled like a spring waiting to release.
She forced herself to take stock. Flour blanketed the floor. Cabinets hung broken from the walls. The oven bore a massive dent. Shelves collapsed against each other like exhausted soldiers. The ceramic crock with Agnes's remains sat on the counter beside Margaret Sweet’s spoon, snapped cleanly in half.
Her throat closed around a sound she refused to make. She couldn’t fix this alone.
The thought terrified her more than the break-in.
A car door slammed outside. Cara flinched so hard she nearly dropped the broom.
Gabe's hand went to his weapon. His body shifted toward the door, blocking her line of sight.
Reagan barreled through so fast the bell barely had time to jingle, her hair twisted into a lopsided bun, pajama pants stuffed into rubber rain boots, and a travel mug of coffee clutched in one white-knuckled fist. "Cara Sweet, you better not tell me this is some kind of joke."
Cara opened her mouth to respond.
What came out was closer to a sob than a word.
Reagan crossed the distance in three strides and wrapped her arms around her so tight it hurt. The coffee mug clattered to the floor, forgotten. Cara buried her face in Reagan's shoulder and let herself shake.
Just for a second. Long enough to remember she wasn't on her own. Not entirely.
Reagan pulled back and studied her like a triage nurse assessing damage. Her fingers brushed Cara's cheek, pushed hair out of her eyes, checked for injuries that weren't visible. "Sit down. You look like death warmed over."
"I'm okay."
