Page 45 of Riptide
Of course, sweetie! I'm not a monster. I just need to protect my interests. You understand.
Then, after a pause:
BTW, that friend of yours—the military guy—he seems very protective. Reminds me of someone I used to know. Does he know about your situation? About me? Just wondering.
Cara's chest tightened.
The casualness of it. The implied threat wrapped in emojis and sweet language.
He's just a friend. He doesn't know anything.
Good! Let's keep it that way. The fewer people involved, the simpler this stays. Complications make me nervous, and you don't want me nervous.
Cara stared at her phone, that specific nausea she remembered from her old life churning in her gut. The post-con sick feeling. The knowledge that she'd just lied expertly, manipulated someone perfectly, and hated every second of it.
But this time was different.
This time, she wasn't the predator. She was the prey pretending to be caught while actually setting a trap.
The distinction felt thin tonight.
She looked around her apartment. The life she'd built as Cara Sweet. The cozy space above the bakery. The recipe books on the shelf—some Margaret's, some new ones she'd bought.
All of it built on lies.
But at least they'd been lies meant to protect. To hide. To survive.
Not lies meant to manipulate and control.
The distinction mattered. It had to matter.
Her phone buzzed with a new message. Team group chat.
Reagan:Meeting at 7:30? Tom says he found something.
Wade:I'll be there.
Tom:Bringing files on Mitchell's financial patterns.
Piper:Finished homework. I can analyze her Instagram engagement rates if that helps?
Cara stared at the messages. Her new friends, working to save her while she was lying to all of them about who she really was.
Another text came through, just to Cara this time. From Reagan.
Hey. I know today was hard. Portland, Latimer, trying to find Forsythe. You holding up?
Cara's fingers hovered over the keyboard. The easy lie would be "I'm fine." But Reagan would see through that immediately.
She typed:Barely. This is harder than I thought.
Reagan's response came quickly:Want help with the Forsythe call? I can do it if you want. Or be there with you when you call. Might be easier than doing it alone.
Cara's throat tightened.
Reagan was offering to take the hard thing. To spare Cara the pain of talking to a woman whose brother had died because of Blaire. To shoulder some of the burden.
When was the last time someone had done that? Just... offered to help without asking what was in it for them?
