Page 23 of Riptide
She left.
Cara stood in the sudden quiet, Diane's words echoing.
Her phone buzzed.
Reagan: How'd it go with Diane? Isn't she a miracle?
Cara: Yes. Definitely.
Reagan: Did you hire her?
Cara stared at the message. She should have asked about schedule, about pay, about when Diane could start regularly. Should have done a dozen professional things.
The typing bubble appeared before she could respond.
Reagan: Idiot. I'll talk to her. She starts tomorrow, 6 AM. I'm paying her for the first week. Don't argue.
Cara: Thank you.
Reagan: That's what family does. See you at 7.
Cara looked at Piper, who was watching her with those too-knowing eyes.
"I need some rest before the meeting," Cara said. "Can you close up?"
"Of course. Is everything okay?"
"It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated lately." Piper's expression softened. "But yeah, I'll handle close. I’ve got my books with me. I can do homework until the meeting. But be aware, I’m going to eat, like a lot. Probably more than you’re paying me today."
Cara eyed the slight little thing. “I’m not worried.”
Piper tapped her head. “I might not look like much, but this brain requires a LOT of calories. Chocolate mostly. As long as you’re good with that.” She stuck her head into the pastry case to re-arrange the few treats left for sale.
Cara pulled out her phone, looked at the team chat.
She could still run. Before prison, running had literally been a way of life. Completely automatic, and mostly successful, if not a seriously depressing way to live.
Or she could fight back. Take this woman down.
Tonight, she'd tell the team about Blaire. Not about Carly Reid. Not about prison or federal charges. Just fill in the details of what Reagan and Wade already suspected.
And she’d ask for their help.
7
The basement of Sugar& Salt Bakery didn't look like the headquarters of a vigilante operation.
It looked like a storage room that someone had tried very hard to make functional: concrete floor, exposed pipes, fluorescent lights that flickered occasionally. Tom had set up a workstation in one corner—multiple monitors, server equipment, enough tech to make the NSA jealous. Wade had installed a weapons locker disguised as a filing cabinet. Reagan had added a conference table that looked like it came from a school surplus sale.
Cara descended the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.
They were all there. Waide, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, giving her an encouraging nod. Reagan at the table, a plate of day-old muffins from the bakery, arranged like it was a normal meeting. Tom at his computer station, though for once his hands weren't moving, an open energy drink forgotten beside his keyboard. Piper perched on the edge of the desk, swinging, her legs clearly sensing something big was happening.
Reagan and Wade already knew she was in trouble. But they didn't know the details, but they didn’t know how bad things really were.
"Cara." Reagan gestured to a chair. "Sit. You ready to tell us what we're dealing with?"
