Page 27 of Riptide
Tom at his computers, code scrolling across screens.
Piper analyzing Blaire's Instagram feed, making notes.
Wade organizing equipment with military precision.
Reagan on the phone, speaking low and fast to someone.
Her team. Working to save her.
Without asking questions they had every right to ask.
Because they all had secrets. They all had pasts they didn't talk about.
And they'd made a choice—together—not to let those pasts define them.
She closed the door and headed upstairs.
Tomorrow, Diane would start at the bakery. The team would start investigating Blaire. The clock would keep ticking.
But tonight, for the first time in days, Cara wasn't drowning alone.
8
By late afternoon,Gabe had been staring at Blaire Mitchell's digital footprint for hours, and with each passing minute, he liked what he saw less and less.
He sat at his desk in the police station, surrounded by the mundane machinery of small-town law enforcement. Forms for Harold Bianchi's rooster complaint. A stack of traffic citations waiting for review. The quarterly budget report the town council needed by Friday.
All of it felt like theater while the real work happened on his computer screen.
Blaire Mitchell was a predator with a business model built on human suffering.
Gabe rubbed his eyes, checked his watch. Two PM. He'd been at this since seven this morning, interrupted only by a call about teenagers skateboarding in the grocery store parking lot and Mrs. Sanderson’s daily report about her neighbor's suspicious activities. (Today: he'd received a package. At his own house. Clearly nefarious.)
He pulled up another case file. Marcus Webb, Portland. Blaire had been hired to find him eighteen months ago—hisex-business partner wanted to serve him with lawsuit papers. Standard skip trace work.
But then Marcus disappeared from his apartment two weeks later. And three weeks after that, Blaire posted on Instagram:Sometimes the people we're looking for don't want to be found. And that's okay! My job is just to provide answers. What happens after is up to the universe.
The comments were telling:
You're so amazing at this!
How much did this case pay?
I wish I could do what you do. So rewarding!
Gabe clicked through to Marcus's name in public records. Bankruptcy filing six months later. A restraining order he'd filed against "unknown parties engaging in harassment." A police report for cyberstalking that went nowhere.
He pulled up his phone, dialed the Portland PD number he'd found in the file.
"Detective Hackett."
"This is Chief Gabe Sawyer, Haven Cove Police. I'm calling about a case you worked last year. Cyberstalking complaint filed by Marcus Webb?"
A pause. "Yeah, I remember that one. Guy was a mess. Claimed someone was blackmailing him, but he wouldn't give us details. Wouldn't tell us who or what they had on him. Case went cold."
"Did the name Blaire Mitchell come up?"
"Hang on." Sounds of typing. "Yeah, actually. Webb mentioned her. Said she was a private investigator who'd been hired to find him for a civil case. But he wouldn't explain the connection to the blackmail. Got real cagey when we pushed."
