Page 84 of Riptide
He held her gaze for another moment. Then he stepped back.
"Lock your door. Don't go anywhere alone if you can help it. And call me if anything happens. Anything at all."
"I will."
He turned and walked down the hallway. She watched him go, her chest aching with everything she couldn't say.
Then she closed the door, locked it, and leaned against it, eyes closed.
She should eat something. Should try to sleep. Should do anything besides stand here replaying every word she wished she'd said.
Instead, she moved to the couch, wrapped herself in a blanket, and watched the light fade from the windows. The apartment grew dark around her. She didn't bother turning on the lamps.
Somewhere out there, Blaire was plotting her next move. Tom was digging through code. Gabe was chasing a ghost who didn't want to be found. And Cara was sitting alone in the dark, waiting for something—anything—to change.
Her phone buzzed.
Tom:MEETING NOW. MY HOUSE.
Cara grabbed a sweater and headed for the door.
27
Cara had droppedPiper off at her house before, but she’d never been inside. The team usually met at the bakery basement, neutral ground that belonged to no one and everyone.
She expected to be inside one day, maybe for a summer get together with the people she was fast becoming close to. But now she stood on the porch of the modest craftsman bungalow, taking in the details that told the story of a single dad and his teenage daughter, while they plotted to take down a blackmailer.
A wind chime made of old computer keys hung near the door. Potted succulents lined the railing, each in a hand-painted container—Piper's work, clearly, all bright colors and abstract patterns.
Reagan answered her knock. "Come on. Tom's been pacing for an hour."
The living room continued the theme—cozy chaos with personality. A sagging corduroy couch covered in quilted blankets. Bookshelves overflowing with paperbacks, tech manuals, and art supplies. One wall held a gallery of framed photographs: Tom and Piper at various ages, camping trips andscience fairs and goofy selfies. A much younger Tom holding a baby Piper, both of them grinning at the camera.
No photos of a mother anywhere. Cara noticed that absence like a held breath.
"Tom’s office is through the kitchen," Reagan said.
Cara followed her past a refrigerator covered in Piper's artwork—everything from childhood crayon drawings to recent watercolors—and down a narrow hallway.
Tom's office was a different world entirely. Four monitors glowing, cables snaking across the floor, empty coffee cups on every flat surface. But even here, Piper's presence showed: a tie-dyed beanbag chair in the corner, a string of fairy lights along one wall, a hand-lettered sign above Tom's workstation that read "HACK THE PLANET" in rainbow colors.
The team was assembled. Wade against the wall near the exit. Piper cross-legged on her beanbag, laptop balanced on her knees, chewing on a pen cap.
Tom sat motionless at his workstation. That stillness worried Cara most. Tom was never still.
"Finally," Piper said, bouncing up. "Dad's been doing his creepy statue thing for like twenty minutes. It's freaking me out."
"What did you find?" Cara asked.
Tom swiveled to face her. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. "I got lucky. Blaire logged in without her VPN for about six minutes. Probably distracted by everything we've been throwing at her." A tired smile. "Six minutes was enough."
He pulled up a file. Lines of code scrolled across the screen.
"I found the program. She calls it Huntress."
"Ominous much?" Piper muttered.
"Custom AI that crawls databases looking for anomalies," Tom continued. "People who don't exist before a certain date. Credit histories that start from nothing. Inheritance recordsthat don't match family trees." He glanced at Cara. "Like Margaret Sweet having no living relatives, but suddenly having a grandniece."
