Page 122 of Riptide
Cara looked up automatically, customer-service smile already in place.
A woman entered, the artist, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder with paintbrush handles poking out the top.
Cara barely registered her, already reaching for a cup. "What can I get you?"
The woman approached the counter, a pleasant smile on her face. "One last cappuccino before I head back to real life. Portland."
Portland.
The word hit Cara like a physical blow.
She froze, cup suspended in mid-air, and really looked at the woman for the first time. The dark curly hair. The glasses. The bare face, no makeup.
Strip away the wig.
Add the pixie-cut.
Add the refined polish, the professional makeup.
The cup slipped from Cara's fingers, clattering against the counter.
Jessica Forsythe.
She'd been here the whole time. Painting. Drinking cappuccinos.
Hiding in plain sight.
Jessica's pleasant expression shifted as she registered the recognition in Cara's eyes. But there was no panic. No surprise. Just a quiet acknowledgment, like a mask being set aside.
Her hand moved to the canvas bag.
When it emerged, it held a small handgun—kept low, below the counter's edge, invisible to anyone who might glance through the front window. "I wondered how long it would take you."
Cara's heart hammered against her ribs. "You wanted me to recognize you."
"I need to talk to you. This seemed like the simplest way." Jessica hurried to the door and flipped the closed sign, then gestured with the gun. "Let’s head to the back. We have a lot to discuss."
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The kitchen doorswung shut behind them, cutting off the afternoon light.
Cara's hands trembled as she walked deeper into the room, away from the ovens, away from the back door, away from any hope of escape. Jessica followed, moving with the calm efficiency of someone who'd thought through every variable.
"Stop there." Jessica's voice was quiet. Controlled. "Turn around."
Cara turned.
Jessica stood between her and both exits—the door to the bakery, the door to the alley. The gun stayed low but present, a constant reminder of who held the power here.
"Relax." Jessica's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "If I wanted you dead, that would have already happened."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want you to understand."
Cara stared at her—at the woman she'd dismissed as too broken to fight back, too shattered by grief to be a threat. The curly dark wig. The glasses. The artist's costume she'd worn for days, hiding in plain sight.
"You've been here the whole time," Cara said. "Watching us."
