Page 47 of Riptide
That friend of yours—the military guy—he seems very protective.
The implication was clear. Blaire was watching all of them now. Wade. Reagan. Tom. Piper.
Everyone Cara cared about.
The anger that flared was clean and sharp. Different from the fear she'd been living with. Different from the desperation.
Blaire thought she was untouchable. Thought her victims were too broken to fight back. Thought she could keep destroying lives and documenting it all with heart emojis and no one would ever stop her.
She was about to learn that some prey bites back.
Cara took a breath and pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
She waited, heart pounding, for Jessica Forsythe to answer.
To either give them the key they needed to stop Blaire.
Or to prove that some people were too damaged to save.
14
The phone rangfour times before Jessica Forsythe answered.
"Who is this? How did you get this number?"
The voice was sharp, hostile. Nothing like the warm-eyed woman in the photos Tom had found—the "before" photos, from when Jessica still had a brother.
Cara's mind clicked into con artist mode automatically. She'd planned this call. Knew exactly what to say, how to present herself. Start with empathy, build common ground, create connection. Standard manipulation technique.
"Jessica Forsythe?" She kept her voice gentle, non-threatening. "My name is Cara Sweet. I left you a voicemail earlier today?—"
"I know who you are." Jessica cut her off. "You and your friend showed up at my condo. My neighbor told me. Then I found out you went to my work. Leave me alone, or I'll slap a restraining order on you so fast…"
Cara's stomach dropped. Adjust. Pivot. Show contrition.
"I'm sorry, I should have called first?—"
"Uh, WRONG answer." Jessica's laugh was bitter. "You should have left me alone. Who do you think you are, tracking me down? Showing up at my HOME?"
"I needed to talk to you about?—"
"About Blaire Mitchell. I know. You said in your voicemail." Jessica's voice rose. "And here's what I have to say about that: Leave. Me. ALONE."
Cara pressed forward, still calculating, still playing the part she'd rehearsed. "Jessica, please. Just five minutes. I'm being blackmailed by Blaire. She's asking for fifty thousand dollars. I have nine days?—"
Jessica laughed again, harsh and broken. "Oh, so YOU'RE in trouble, and suddenly MY pain matters? My brother's DEATH is useful to you?"
The words hit harder than Cara expected. The calculated approach suddenly felt sick. Wrong.
"That's not?—"
"You showed up at my HOME. At my WORK." Jessica's voice shook. "Like you have some kind of RIGHT to my story. Like my brother's suicide is just a data point in your little investigation."
"I'm not investigating?—"
"Then what are you doing?" The question landed like a slap. "Because from where I'm standing, you're just another person who wants something from me. Another person who thinks they can USE what happened to Shawn for their own purposes."
