Page 9 of Riptide
She could ask the team for help.
The thought made her chest ache.
They were all survivors, scraping by in Haven Cove because it was safe and quiet and let them disappear.
They'd help if she asked—would probably pool every dollar they had.
But asking meant bringing them into it. Making them accessories if Blaire discovered the full truth. If this went sideways—if Blaire dug deeper, if law enforcement got involved, if everything blew up—the team would be caught in the blast radius.
Reagan was in witness protection. Cara was certain of it. Whatever she was hiding from, whoever wanted her dead, drawing federal attention to Haven Cove could expose her.
Tom had mentioned that people with his background "don't get to retire gracefully." Bringing scrutiny to the team could put him and Piper at risk.
Wade's past was the vaguest of all, but the way he'd said "different reasons for leaving" made it clear he couldn't afford attention either.
They'd all agreed not to dig into each other's pasts for a reason. They all had secrets worth protecting.
Asking for help with Blaire meant risking all of them.
Which left one option.
The thing she'd sworn she'd never do again.
Cara retrieved her phone, opened her laptop, and started searching classified ads. She needed estate sales or private collections, looking for high-value items being sold by people who didn't quite know what they had.
Looking for a mark.
Her hands stilled on the keyboard.
This was who she'd been. Who she'd promised the Lord she wouldn't be anymore. The person who'd stood in that prison chapel and asked for forgiveness, for a chance to be someone better.
Someone honest.
But that person—the honest version of Cara Sweet—only existed because of lies.
Lord, I don't know what to do here. I'm trapped. If I con someone to get the money, I'm back to being Carly. If I don't, Blaire exposes me and destroys everything. There's no good choice.
The prayer felt hollow. Desperate.
Like bargaining with the only one who might still believe in her.
A knock at her door made her jump.
She closed the laptop, checked the peephole.
Reagan.
Of course.
Cara considered not answering. Pretending she wasn't home. Hiding like she'd been hiding from everything else.
Another knock. Firmer.
"Cara, I know you're in there. Your lights are on and I can hear you moving around. Open up."
Cara sighed and opened the door.
Reagan stood on the tiny landing, a paper bag in one hand and a determined look on her face. The smell hit Cara before the words did—butter-grilled bread, melted cheese, and the salty promise of fresh-cut fries.
