Page 14 of Riptide
Like she was someone worth choosing.
Cara grabbed her phone. Her thumb hovered over his name.
She could call him. Could hear his voice. Could pretend, just for a moment, that this could end any way but disaster.
Instead, she set the phone down and went back to researching ways to con fifty thousand dollars from people who deserved it.
Some walls needed to stay up. Even when your heart was breaking.
Her phone buzzed. Another unknown number, but she knew who it was.
Can't sleep? Me neither! Doing research is so energizing. Did you know forging inheritance documents is a FEDERAL crime? Like, serious jail time. That's intense. Anyway, just thinking about consequences and choices. Sweet dreams!
Cara deleted the message and turned off her phone.
A soft knock at her door made her jump.
She checked her phone. Three-thirty AM.
Another knock. Quiet but insistent.
Cara grabbed the kitchen knife—old habits—and approached the door. Checked the peephole.
Wade.
She opened the door, knife still in hand. "It's three in the morning."
"I know." He stood in the hallway, tactical gear swapped for jeans and a hoodie, expression carefully neutral. "Saw your lights on. Figured you weren't sleeping either."
"So you just... came over?"
"Reagan called me after she left. Said you were in trouble." He gestured at the knife. "You planning to use that or can I come in?"
Cara lowered the knife, stepped aside.
Wade entered, surveyed the apartment with the systematic assessment of someone trained to spot threats. Paused at the kitchen table. At her laptop. At the phone showing Blaire's latest threat.
"You're being blackmailed," he said flatly.
Not a question. A statement.
"Reagan told you?"
"She said someone was threatening you. Wanted money." His eyes moved from the phone to her face. "She didn't say who. Or how much. Or why."
"And you decided to show up at three AM because...?"
"Because people being blackmailed do stupid things at this time of night. Like run. Or pay money they don't have to people who won't stop." He crossed his arms. "Which were you planning?"
Both. Neither. She didn't know anymore. "I'm handling it."
"Right. That's why you look like you haven't slept in a week and you're scrolling through some influencer's Instagram at three in the morning with a kitchen knife." His expression didn't change. "Try again."
Cara sank into a chair. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth would be nice."
"We don't do truth. We do 'don't ask about pasts.'"
