Page 13 of Riptide
Dom had three daughters. A career. A life he'd risked everything to protect when he'd helped her.
He'd been meticulous. Had scrubbed every connection between himself and Margaret Sweet. Had made sure that even if someone investigated the inheritance, they'd hit a wall. No nephew. No family connection. Nothing that led back to him.
Blaire had found the fake will. Had figured out Cara wasn't Margaret's heir.
But she hadn't found Dom. Which meant his precautions had worked.
And Cara wasn't going to be the one to expose him.
She set down her phone.
Whatever happened with Blaire, she'd handle it alone. Dom had already sacrificed enough.
4
By two AM,Cara had given up on trying to sleep. Sat at her kitchen table instead, staring at Blaire's Instagram, studying the woman who held Cara’s life in her perfectly manicured hands.
Every post was a performance. Every caption carefully crafted. Every photo filtered and angled for maximum engagement.
Until Cara dug deeper into the tagged photos, the comments, the people who followed her...
There. Buried in the replies to a post from months ago. Someone thanking Blaire for "finding my sister after the police gave up." Another comment: "Worth every penny. You're amazing at this."
Cara clicked through to Blaire's highlights. One was labeled "Success Stories" with a sparkling emoji.
Story after story of Blaire finding people. Tracking down birth parents. Locating deadbeat dads. Uncovering fake identities. All presented with bright smiles and upbeat music, like she was helping reunite families rather than hunting humans for profit.
Each story ended the same way: "DM for services! "
Blaire Mitchell wasn't just a content creator who did identity investigations on the side.
She was an identity investigator who used content creation as cover. As advertising. As a way to crowdsource her hunts.
Cara's stomach turned.
She clicked through more of Blaire's posts. Further back. Two years ago.
There. A caption that made Cara's blood run cold.
Sometimes people deserve to be found. Sometimes they're running from consequences they earned. I don't judge—I just locate. Justice takes many forms.
The comments were supportive. Enthusiastic. People loved Blaire's work.
Nobody seemed to care that she was essentially a bounty hunter with better branding.
Cara sat back, rubbing her eyes. Think. She needed to think like she used to. Like Carly Reid, who'd sold a fake Monet for 1.2 million and convinced a senator's wife it was real.
Blaire wanted money. Fifty thousand, specifically. Not a random number—carefully chosen. Enough to be painful but potentially achievable. Enough to suggest Blaire had researched Cara's probable resources.
Cara closed the laptop with trembling fingers.
There was no winning. And no way to make this right with Gabe.
Tomorrow, he’d probably stop by the bakery for his morning coffee, giving her that smile that made her chest ache. And then he’d ask how she was doing with that gentle concern that made her want to tell him everything.
And she'd lie to his face. Again.
She'd built walls around her heart for good reason. But Gabe had somehow slipped past those walls anyway. With his steadypresence and his terrible jokes about Harold's chickens and the way he looked at her like she was someone worth protecting.
