Page 115 of Riptide
Tom pulled up a photo—a man in his forties, receding hairline, tired eyes. "Marcus Webb. Seattle. Software developer. Blaire's been bleeding him for forty thousand over the past two years. Payments stopped abruptly three months ago."
"Stopped why?" Wade asked.
"Don't know yet. Could be he ran out of money. Could be he decided he'd had enough."
"Or could be he decided to solve the problem permanently," Reagan said.
Tom nodded, then hesitated, his hand hovering over the trackpad. He exchanged a look with Reagan before pulling up the second photo.
Cara's stomach dropped.
Jessica Forsythe. Late twenties, delicate features, short blonde hair styled in a pixie cut. The professional headshot they'd all studied.
"We have to consider her," Tom finally said. "I know none of us want to, but?—"
"She's been through enough." Reagan's voice was tight. "We already traumatized her once, showing up at her home, her workplace. She begged us to leave her alone."
"And now Blaire's dead," Wade said quietly.
Cara closed her eyes, hearing Jessica's voice in her memory.That's what Blaire Mitchell does. She finds desperate people and she destroys them.The hollow grief. The barely contained fury. The way she'd saidI hope you survive thisbefore hanging up—words Cara had taken as sympathy at the time.
Now they sounded different.
"Maybe she found another way," Wade replied.
Nobody argued.
"She has serious motive," Tom continued reluctantly. "I found posts on a grief forum where she called Blaire a 'monster wearing a smile.' Said someone needed to stop her before she destroyed more families."
Cara remembered Jessica's voice breaking as she described finding out about Shawn's death. The way she'd blamed herself for not saving him. The cold finality when she'd told Cara never to contact her again.
"I can't believe she'd do this," Cara said. But even as she spoke, doubt crept in. Grief did terrible things to people. Especially grief mixed with the knowledge that the person responsible would never face justice.
"We don't know that she did," Reagan said. "That's why we need to talk to her."
"She won't talk to us." Cara shook her head. "She made that very clear. Said she'd slap a restraining order on us if we came near her again."
"That was before Blaire died," Wade pointed out. "Everything's different now."
"Is it?" Cara looked around at her team—at the reluctance on every face. None of them wanted to do this. None of them wanted to drag Jessica Forsythe back into the nightmare she'd begged them to leave her out of. "We go to her now, we're basically accusing her of murder. A woman who lost her brother, who told me she just wants to be left alone."
"Welcome to investigations," Reagan said. "Sometimes there's no good option. Just less bad ones."
Silence stretched through the basement.
"So we split up," Cara finally said, standing. The tea she'd never drunk sloshed in the mug. "Cover more ground. Find out who actually did this before Price makes up his mind."
Wade nodded. "I'll take Webb in Seattle. I've got contacts who can help me track him down quietly. If he's got an alibi, we cross him off fast."
"Cara and I will take Forsythe." Reagan's voice was heavy. "Portland's closer. And if anyone can get through to her..." She looked at Cara. "You're the one she talked to before. Even if she was angry, she opened up to you."
"She told me to leave her alone."
Cara thought about Jessica's voice on the phone.
I hope you survive this. I really do.
Had that been a warning? A goodbye? Or something else entirely?
