Page 5 of Riptide
Someone exactly like Cara used to be.
2
Cara madeit through the morning rush on autopilot.
She smiled at customers. Made change. Boxed pastries. Pretended her world wasn't imploding with every tick of the clock on the wall.
Blaire's card burned in her pocket Guilt made tangible.
By ten o'clock, the bakery had finally quieted. Just a few stragglers finishing coffee, checking their phones, living their completely normal lives while Cara's world crumbled.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her stomach dropped.
WOW! the lighting in your bakery is PERFECT for content! Just posted the pics—tagged you! Hope that's okay! Also we should totally chat soon. Like, really soon. Before I have to start asking around town about Margaret's mysterious long-lost grandniece. –B
The few remaining customers were absorbed in their own worlds. Nobody noticed her.
Cara clamped down on the surge of bile in her throat.
Another text:Noon. Your back office? Let's chat properly. Come alone. Or I'll just pop over to the police station and ask Chief Sawyer some questions. He seems SO friendly.
Cara stared at the phone, that specific terror of being hunted by someone who understood exactly how to hurt you.
She needed help. Needed someone. But the team was scattered—Reagan dealing with the historical society, Wade out on his fishing trawler, Tom working from home. And she couldn't tell them anyway. Couldn't expose herself, or Dom Adler, Margaret’s real nephew, everything.
Eleven forty-five.
She flipped the sign to "Back in 15 minutes" and fled to the back office.
The office was really a converted storage closet with a desk, filing cabinet, and a window that overlooked the alley.
She paced the small space, breathing too fast.
Think. She needed to think.
If Blaire really had concerns, why the direct threats? Why not just go to the police?
Because Blaire wanted something.
This wasn't about justice. This was about leverage.
Which meant it was a con.
And Cara knew cons. Had run them. Had been good at them.
But this Blaire—with her Instagram aesthetic and her bright, empty smile—was different. Meaner. Hungrier. The kind of con artist who'd grown up with technology, who understood that the best disguise in the modern world was looking exactly like everyone else's carefully curated online persona.
Cara had sold fake art to rich people who should've known better.
Blaire probably crowdfunded her cons and made them look like empowerment.
Ten minutes later, footsteps echoed in the alley. Light, confident. The click of expensive shoes.
Blaire appeared in the doorway like she belonged there, phone already up and recording.
