Page 17 of Riptide
"That's thoughtful."
"I try." Blaire leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Actually, I'm a little worried about my friend. Cara Sweet? She owns the bakery on Main Street."
The mention of Cara's name sent alarm bells ringing.
"What about her?"
"Well, we go way back—college friends—and I was so excited when I found out she'd inherited her great-aunt's bakery. Such a sweet story." Blaire's smile dimmed slightly. "But when I saw her yesterday, she seemed... off. Stressed. Anxious. Not like herself at all."
Gabe concentrated on keeping his face blank, but his mind raced. Something about this woman felt off in a big way. "Running a bakery is hard work."
"Oh, I know. I just..." Blaire bit her lip, playing concerned friend perfectly. "Cara's never been great with the business side of things. She's more creative, you know? I'm worried she might be in over her head. Financially, I mean."
"If she's having business problems, there are resources?—"
"I know, I know. I offered to help. To look over her books, maybe connect her with a financial advisor I know." Blaire glanced out the window toward Main Street. "But she seemed almost... scared? Like she didn't want me to look too closely at anything."
The statement landed carefully. Not quite an accusation. Just concern tinged with confusion.
"Maybe she's just proud," Gabe said. "Some people don't like accepting help."
"That's true. Cara's always been independent." Blaire studied him with those sharp eyes. "She talks about you, actually. The protective police chief. Former FBI, right? Counterintelligence?"
The shift felt calculated. Gathering information.
"Close enough."
"Wow. That's impressive. Big change from FBI to small-town police work." She tilted her head. "What made you leave?"
"Personal reasons."
"Of course. Sorry, I don't mean to pry."
A serious lie.
Blaire's smile returned, bright and empty. "I just... you seem close to Cara. I thought maybe you'd noticed something. If she's struggling, if there's anything I should be worried about..."
Gabe met her eyes. "If Cara needs help, she knows where to find me."
"That's good. That's really good." The woman stood, smoothing her perfect outfit. "Well, I should let you finish your lunch. I'm staying in town for a bit, so I'm sure we'll run into each other again." She paused. "Oh, and Chief? If you do notice anything concerning about Cara—anything at all—please let me know. I'd hate for her to be in trouble and too proud to ask for help."
She left before he could respond, footsteps clicking away.
Gabe sat in the sudden silence, every instinct screaming that something was very wrong with that conversation.
Twenty minutes later, he was back at the station, pulling up everything he could find on Blaire Mitchell.
Her Instagram loaded. Perfectly curated feed. Beach photos with inspirational quotes. Coffee shop aesthetics. Outfit posts with affiliate links. And happy, crying people, arm in arm. So. Many. People.
And the tagline:Reuniting families. Finding answers. DM for services.
Gabe clicked through to her website. Professional layout. Testimonials. Services offered.
Blaire Mitchell wasn't a lifestyle blogger.
She was a skip tracer. Someone who found people who didn't want to be found, all documented on Instagram with bright smiles and upbeat music.
Post after post of Blaire "reuniting" families. But read between the lines, check the patterns...
