Page 66 of Riptide
Tonight, she was just Cara Sweet. Scared baker. Blackmail victim. Someone who wanted this nightmare to end.
She'd played marks before. Had been good at it. Had sworn she'd never do it again.
But this was different. This was survival.
Lord, help me get through this. Help me say the right things. And please, please don't let her see through me.
Cara got out of the car.
The fog swallowed her almost immediately, muffling the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below. She walked toward the dim light glowing from the cottage's single front window, gravel crunching under her feet.
Blaire's silver Mercedes was already parked near the cottage. Good. She'd arrived first, which meant she'd had time to get settled.
Cara needed her complacent. People who felt in control got careless.
The cottage door opened before she reached it.
Blaire stood silhouetted in the doorway, and for a moment, Cara almost didn't recognize her.
Gone was the Instagram-perfect influencer with the designer athleisure and the carefully curated smile. This Blaire looked hollowed out. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She wore jeans and an oversized sweater that made her look smaller, younger, somehow diminished.
"You came alone?" Blaire's voice was tight. Suspicious.
"You told me to."
Blaire studied the darkness behind Cara, searching for movement, for headlights, for any sign she'd been betrayed. Finally, she stepped aside.
The cottage interior was sparse. A single room with a cold wood stove, a table and two chairs, a sagging couch that had probably been comfortable sometime in the 1970s. Battery-powered lanterns provided the only light, casting harsh shadows across the walls.
No electricity out here. No cell service either, which was probably why Blaire had chosen it.
Blaire closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed, studying Cara with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
"Did you do it?"
Cara kept her expression confused, letting her genuine fear show through. That part wasn't hard. "Do what? Blaire, you called me here in a panic. What's going on?"
"Don't play stupid." Blaire's voice cracked. "The FBI. Someone contacted them. Someone told them about my methods. And you're the only one with a reason to do that."
"The FBI?" Cara let her eyes go wide. "What are you talking about? I've been trying to get your money together, just like you asked. Why would I go to the FBI?"
"Because you're desperate. Because you think they'll protect you." Blaire pushed off the door, started pacing. "Because you don't understand what happens to people who cross me."
Cara took a step back, letting her voice shake. "Blaire, I didn't contact anyone. I've been too scared to even tell my friends what's happening. You made it very clear what would happen if I told anyone."
"Then how do you explain this?" Blaire pulled out her phone, thrust it toward Cara. "Read it."
Cara took the phone with trembling hands—not entirely faked—and read the email from "Special Agent Rita Martinez." The one Tom had crafted so carefully.
"This is..." Cara looked up, making sure her expression showed shock. "Blaire, this is serious. The FBI is investigating you?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Blaire snatched the phone back. "Someone tipped them off. Someone who knows about my cases. About my methods."
"It wasn't me." Cara met her eyes, putting every ounce of sincerity she could muster into the words. "I swear to you, it wasn't me. The last thing I want is the FBI looking into anything connected to me."
That, at least, was completely true.
Blaire's eyes searched her face, looking for the lie. Cara held her gaze, kept her breathing steady, projected nothing but fear and confusion.
