Scared but also... something else. Protective?
Gabe holstered his weapon, keeping his hands visible. "I'm FBI. Special Agent Gabriel Sawyer."
The woman's eyes moved between Gabe and Cara, assessing. Calculating whether to believe them. Then her gaze locked on Gabe's face, and something shifted in her expression.
"You're his brother," she said. Not a question. A statement of fact.
Gabe went completely still. "What?"
"You look just like him. Same jaw." The woman's voice gentled slightly. "I thought maybe when I saw you at the bar, but I wasn't sure. Then you asked about a missing person, showed that photo..." She shook her head. "You look just like him. Older. But the same eyes. Same way of standing."
Cara felt her own breath catch. This woman knew David.
"Where is he?" Gabe's voice came out rough. Desperate. "Please. He’s in trouble."
The woman studied him for a long moment, like she was deciding whether to trust what she was seeing. Then something in her cracked.
"My name's Deb," she said. "Deb Harding. I've been working at The Rusty Anchor for six years. Your brother... he's been around for about three weeks now."
"Three weeks." Gabe moved closer. "Where? Where has he been staying?"
"Out here." Deb gestured vaguely at the forest around them. "Living rough. I caught him trying to steal food from the kitchen about a week after he first showed up. He was so careful, thought he could slip in through the back when we were busy. But I heard him."
Cara watched emotions war across Gabe's face. Relief. Fear. Desperate hope.
"What happened?" Gabe asked. "When you caught him?"
"I didn't turn him in." Deb's voice carried defensive pride. "He looked half-starved and scared out of his mind. Kept apologizing, saying he didn't mean any harm, he'd pay me back someday." She paused. "He looked like someone running from something bad."
"He was," Gabe said. "He is. Please. Tell me everything."
Deb wrapped her arms around herself, the cold finally penetrating her thin flannel. "I started leaving plates out back. Leftovers from the kitchen. Food that would've gone to waste anyway. He'd come for them after we closed. Never made a mess. Always left the dishes stacked nice and neat."
The image of David—investigative journalist, careful planner—scrounging for leftovers in the middle of the night made Cara's chest tighten with sympathy.
"Did he tell you what he was running from?" Gabe asked.
"No. I tried to get him to come inside once, told him he could sleep in the storage room where it was warm. But he said he couldn’t risk it." Deb's expression softened with memory. "Said he didn't want to put me in danger. That the people looking for him were dangerous and he couldn't risk them connecting me to him."
Cara blinked back unexpected tears. This stranger had helped David when he had no one else.
"Where is he now?" Gabe's voice was tight with barely controlled emotion.
Deb's face fell. "I don't know. He hasn't come for food in two days. I've been leaving plates like always, but they're still there in the morning. What the raccoons leave, anyways."
"Two days," Gabe repeated, the timeline clicking into place with visible dread. "Three days ago he went back to the warehouse in Haven Cove. That's when they must have?—"
Murdered Marco Ruiz. He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't have to.
"I've been so worried," Deb said. "I kept hoping he'd show up. That maybe he just found somewhere safer to hide. But the longer he didn't come..."
“Did he say anything about where he was headed?” Gabe sounded desperate now.
The woman shook her head.
32
David had been alive.Was still alive, Gabe insisted to himself.
