Page 6 of Riptide
"This office is socool." She panned the phone around. "Vintage small business vibes. Love the recipe books—are those Margaret's? That's so special."
She lowered the phone, and the mask dropped.
The bright smile remained, but her eyes were flat. Calculating. Empty of anything resembling warmth.
"So." Blaire closed the door, leaned against it. Still looked like she was about to film a morning routine TikTok. Still moved like a predator. "Let's skip the performative stuff. You're not Margaret Sweet's grandniece. The paperwork's good—I'll give you credit—but not perfect."
Cara kept her face blank. "Sounds like you've done your homework."
"Always do. It's literally my job." Blaire examined her nails—perfect gel manicure, pale pink. "Well, one of my jobs. Content creator pays the bills. Identity investigation pays for the fun stuff."
"What do you want?"
"Direct. I appreciate that." Blaire's smile widened. "Here's the thing. I don't actually care who you are or why you're hiding. Not my business. But I do care about getting paid for my work."
"Someone hired you."
"Someone's always hiring me. People want to find other people. Verify identities. Dig up dirt. I'm good at it." She shrugged, utterly casual. "This job was easy. Red flags all over your inheritance. Took me like three days to confirm Margaret Sweet's will was hinky."
Dom. She was fishing for Dom.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please." Blaire rolled her eyes. "I've been doing this since I was nineteen. You're good—the bakery cover is smart, the small-town integration is excellent—but you're not that good. Someone set you up here. Someone with serious skills."
She pushed off the door, circled the small office. "That's the interesting part. Who goes to this much trouble? Forged documents, fake inheritance, complete identity package. That's not amateur hour. That's professional-grade witness protection level."
She stopped at the window, looked out at the alley. Still holding her phone, probably still recording. "So here's my offer. Fifty thousand dollars. Two weeks. Cash. I disappear, you keep playing small-town baker, everyone's happy."
Cara's laugh was bitter. "I run a bakery. You think I have fifty thousand in cash?"
"I think whoever set you up here gave you resources. Emergency funds. Something." Blaire turned back, and for the first time, something almost genuine crossed her face. Respect, maybe. Or recognition. "I think you're probably smarter than you're pretending to be. I think you can figure it out."
"And if I can't?"
Blaire's smile turned sharp. "Then I start posting my research. Very public, very detailed. 'The Mystery of Margaret Sweet's Long-Lost Heir.' My followerseat upmystery content. Gets like, crazy engagement."
She pulled up her phone, showed Cara her Instagram. Fifty-seven thousand followers. Posts of her in various cities, always bright and bubbly, always with that influencer aesthetic. But the captions...
Found her! Three-year search complete. DM for details.
Sometimes people don't want to be found. But I'm really good at my job.
New case! Missing person, fake identity, or something else? Follow along!
Every post was a threat disguised as content. Every investigation was entertainment.
"See?" Blaire pocketed her phone. "I don't need the police. I just need to ask the right questions to the right audience. Someone will recognize you eventually. Someone always does."
"Or," she continued, voice brightening back to influencer mode, "you pay me, I delete my research, and we never speak again. Super easy. Very clean."
She headed for the door, paused with her hand on the knob. "Oh, and Cara? Or whatever your real name is? Don't try to run. I'll know."
"Two weeks." Blaire's smile was bright and empty. "Same time, same place. Bring cash. Make good choices!" She left, footsteps fading down the alley, probably already composing her next Instagram story.
Cara sat in the sudden silence, phone clutched in her shaking hands.
Fifty thousand dollars.
