Page 118 of Riptide
"Some. She hasn't used her credit cards since she left Portland. Phone's either off or she ditched it—last ping was five days ago, near the I-5 corridor heading south."
"South toward Haven Cove," Cara said.
"Could be. Or she could have turned off anywhere along the way." Tom paused. "But there's something else. I've been digging into the assistant angle—whoever was running Blaire's accounts. And I found something."
"What?"
"The assistant's digital fingerprint. Whoever was posting for Blaire used multiple layers of encryption, burner emails, VPNs. Serious operational security. But they made one mistake—an IP address that traces back to Portland."
Cara's breath caught. "Portland."
"I cross-referenced it with known locations for both our suspects. Marcus Webb's never been anywhere near that IP. But Jessica Forsythe?" Tom's voice was grim. "She lived three blocks away."
Reagan gripped the steering wheel. "You're saying Jessica was Blaire's assistant?"
"I'm saying someone operating from Jessica's neighborhood had access to all of Blaire's files. Her victims. Her methods. Everything." Tom exhaled. "I dug deeper. Found employment records buried under fake credentials. Six months ago, someone named 'Jennifer Foster' was hired as Blaire's virtual assistant. Tech support, scheduling, social media management."
"Jennifer Foster," Cara repeated. "Jessica Forsythe."
"The initials match. The timing matches. And the skill set matches—Jessica's an accountant. She knows how to hide money trails, manipulate records. She'd know how to create a fake identity good enough to fool Blaire."
Cara leaned back against the headrest, trying to process. Jessica hadn't just been a grieving sister. She'd infiltrated Blaire's operation. Spent six months inside the machine that had destroyed her brother.
"She had access to everything," Cara said slowly. "All of Blaire's victims. All her leverage."
"Including whatever Blaire had on you," Reagan added quietly.
The implication hung in the air.
"There's more," Tom said. "Wade just checked in from Seattle. Marcus Webb has an airtight alibi—he's been in county lockup for the past two weeks. DUI arrest. He couldn't have killed Blaire."
"So it's Jessica." Reagan's voice was flat. "It has to be."
"Blaire had hundreds of victims. We don't know that for certain," Tom cautioned. "But this Jessica is looking less like a victim and more like a suspect by the minute."
You can't stop her. Nobody can.
But Jessica had found a way. Not through lawyers or lawsuits or legal channels. Through patience. Infiltration. Six months of pretending to serve the woman who'd destroyed her brother, gathering information, waiting for the right moment.
And then—a push. A cliff. An ending.
"Tom," Cara said. "The assistant would have had access to Blaire's posting schedule, right? Her Instagram?"
"Full access. Why?"
"Piper said the posting patterns changed. Different writing styles, different times. Like two people were running the account."
"Right. Blaire and her assistant."
"So if the assistant posted something after Blaire died—something to make it look like Blaire was still alive—you could trace where that post came from?"
Tom was quiet for a moment. Then: "Piper. You still there?"
Piper's voice came through, slightly muffled. "I'm here. Already checking."
Keyboard clicks. A sharp intake of breath.
"Oh wow," Piper said.
