Page 37 of Riptide
A team. A plan. And years of experience running cons.
"Okay," she said, standing. Moving to the corkboard. "Here's what we're going to do."
Everyone turned to face her. Waiting.
Cara studied the three profiles, her mind already working through angles, approaches, vulnerabilities. This was what she'd spent years doing—reading people, finding their pressure points, figuring out how to get them to do what she needed.
She'd sworn off that life. But maybe, just this once, she could use those skills for something good.
"We approach them in person where we can," she said. "Latimer and Forsythe are both in Portland—two hours away. I’ll drive up tomorrow."
“Not alone,” Wade insisted. “You and I will take this together.”
She opened her mouth to protest. Wade, with his big, bad military vibe would be too intimidating. But one look at his face told her arguing would get her nowhere. He’d simply follow along if she didn’t agree.
“Excellent idea,” she said.
"Why you?" Tom asked. "No offense, but Reagan or I could?—"
"Because I know how to talk to marks," Cara said. Then caught herself. "I mean, victims. People who've been conned. I know what they're thinking, what they're afraid of, what they need to hear."
She pointed to Latimer's profile. "He's running a fast-food place after making six figures as an investment banker. That's not just a career change—that's shame. He thinks he deserved what happened. That he brought it on himself. If we go in aggressive, demanding information, he'll shut down."
"So how do you approach him?" Reagan asked.
"Soft. Sympathetic. I tell him I'm going through the same thing. That Blair's blackmailing me too. That I need to know I'm not alone." Cara crossed her arms. "I don't ask for anything. I just... connect. Let him see that someone else understands."
"And if he won't talk?"
"I’ll figure it out as I go." She studied Jessica's photo. The kind eyes. The grief barely hidden.
"Forsythe's different," Cara said quietly. "Her brother's dead. Blaire didn’t just take her money—she took her family. That's not shame. That's rage."
"Rage we can use?" Wade asked.
"Rage I can redirect." Cara looked at him. "She's been powerless for eighteen months. Watched Blaire walk away from her brother's death with no consequences. If I can show her there's a way to fight back, a way to make Blaire pay..."
"She'll help," Reagan finished.
"She'll help." Cara pointed to the third profile. "Whitmore's across the country. We can't get to him in person, not quickly. So we do him by phone."
Reagan studied her with a new expression. Respect. Maybe a little wariness. "You're good at this."
"I used to be." Cara's voice was flat. "I spent years learning how to manipulate people. How to read them. How to get them to do what I needed." She looked around the room. "I swore I'd never use those skills again. But if it stops Blair..."
"Then you use them," Wade said firmly. "There's a difference between conning innocent people and protecting victims from a predator."
"Is there?" Cara asked quietly.
"Yes." Wade's voice was certain. "Intent matters. You're not doing this for money or power. You're doing it to save lives."
Cara wanted to believe that. Wanted to think using her old skills for good somehow made it okay.
But she remembered too many times when she'd justified doing wrong things for what felt like right reasons.
11
Portland announceditself the way it always did — gray skies pressing low over the city, rain turning everything to smear and reflection. Cara had made this drive more times than she could count. Shopping trips, mostly, and mostly after dark, once the bakery was locked and she needed the kind of anonymity a city offered that Haven Cove never would. But she'd never come up here hunting the wreckage of someone else's life to see if it matched her own.
