Page 106 of Riptide
A pause. Then:That's strange.
Strange. That was one word for it.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"Maybe she fell asleep?" Reagan said, but even she didn't sound like she believed it.
Wade snorted. "We could be so lucky." He set the knife aside.
"Maybe she changed her mind?" Piper's voice was hopeful.
"Women like Blaire don't change their minds." Tom closed his laptop with a soft click. "They adapt. They pivot. But they don't back down."
Cara's gut churned. Something was wrong. This wasn't like Blaire—not the Blaire who'd called her that morning with ice in her voice and murder in her words. That Blaire had been hungry for this. Eager. She'd wanted to watch Cara burn.
So where was she?
An hour later, Reagan jumped up. "I’m officially calling this. We should get some sleep. Whatever's happening, we can't figure it out tonight. We'll know more in the morning."
The team dispersed slowly. Tom took Piper upstairs, his hand on her shoulder, murmuring something about school tomorrow. Wade caught Cara's eye, nodded once—I'm here if you need me—and followed Reagan up the stairs.
Then Cara was alone.
She sat in the basement for a long time, staring at her phone, waiting for the notification that would end everything.
It never came.
Eventually, she climbed the stairs to her apartment, moving like a woman walking through water. She didn't bother undressing. Just lay down on top of the covers, still in her jeans and sweater, and stared at the ceiling.
Blaire's deadline had come and gone. And nothing had happened.
She should feel relieved. She didn't.
She felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble beneath her feet.
36
Unable to sleep,Gabe hit the station before the sun rose. He fidgeted while the coffee brewed, then sat at his desk, drink going cold beside him, staring at his phone.
He'd checked Blaire's Instagram a dozen times last night. Nothing new since yesterday morning. No dramatic reveal, no exposé, no destruction. Just that same sunset photo with its vapid caption about "finding your truth."
What did it the silence mean?
He pulled up Blaire's profile again. Refreshed. Still nothing.
Lord, I don't know what's happening here. But Cara's hurting, and I can't fix it. I can't even understand it. Help me know what to do. Help me be what she needs, even if I don't have answers.
The prayer felt inadequate. Most of his prayers did lately.
He grabbed his keys. Sitting here wasn't accomplishing anything. He needed to see her. Needed to know she was okay—or as okay as she could be, given everything.
The drive to Sugar & Salt took five minutes in the empty pre-dawn streets. The bakery lights were already on, warm yellow glowing through the fog. Of course they were. Cara would be up,channeling her anxiety into dough and sugar and the familiar rhythms of work.
He pulled into a spot across the street and sat there for a moment, watching through the window.
Diane moved behind the counter, arranging pastries in the display case with efficient grace. And there was Cara, emerging from the back with a tray of something fresh from the oven. Even from here, he could see the exhaustion in the slope of her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes. She looked tired. Pinched. Fragile in a way that made his chest ache.
She set the tray down, said something to Diane, managed a small smile that didn't reach her eyes.
