Page 92 of Riptide
"I know."
"You can leave out whatever you need to." He waited until she looked at him. "But Cara—I need to know details. Not tonight. But soon."
Her eyes glistened. "Gabe..."
"I'm not asking you to trust me with everything. I know there are things you can't tell me." He touched her face gently, avoiding the bruises forming on her throat. "But someone just tried to kill you. I can't protect you if I don't understand what I'm protecting you from."
She was quiet as the patrol cars pulled in, officers emerging, flashlights cutting through the fog.
"Tomorrow," she whispered. "I'll tell you what I can."
It wasn't everything. It wasn't close to everything.
But it was a start.
30
The Haven Cove Innlooked different at nine o'clock at night.
Gabe pulled into the half full parking lot, his best officer, Ellie Torres, in the passenger seat. The fog had thickened since he'd left Cara with the responding officers, turning the inn's exterior lights into fuzzy halos that barely cut through the gray.
"How do you want to play this?" Ellie asked. "Straight warning, or do we push for information?"
"Warning first. See how she reacts." Gabe killed the engine. "She's a professional. She'll know we're fishing if we come in too hard."
"And if she's hiding something?"
"Then we watch her hide it and figure out why later."
Ellie side eyed him. She'd been giving him those glances since she arrived at the hardware store parking lot.
They walked through the lobby, past the half-asleep desk clerk who barely looked up from his phone, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Gabe knocked firmly.
Silence. Then shuffling. A light clicked on, visible under the door.
"Who is it?" Blaire's voice was muffled, wary.
"Chief Sawyer. Haven Cove Police. I need to speak with you."
A pause. The sound of a chain sliding. The door opened six inches, Blaire's face appearing in the gap—no makeup, hair disheveled, eyes sharp despite the hour.
"Gabe. This is unexpected." Her gaze flicked to Ellie, assessing. "What's going on?"
"Can we come in? This shouldn't wait."
Another pause. Then the chain dropped and the door swung open.
The room was standard inn fare—floral bedspread, dated furniture, a suitcase open on the luggage rack. But Gabe noticed the laptop on the desk, still glowing. The phone charging on the nightstand. Blaire Mitchell didn't fully unplug, even at night.
Blaire pulled her silk robe tighter. The expensive fabric did nothing to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes, or the bruises still mottling her cheek and jaw. She looked smaller without her Instagram armor. More human.
Her eyes narrowed. "What's this about? Did you find the person who cut my brakes?"
"We’re making progress. But I have new information you need to hear." Gabe strode to the center of the room, crowding Blaire as much as he dared. Ellie positioned herself near the door—not blocking it, but present. Watchful.
Gabe let a silence settle between them, priming the moment. "Do you know a man named Michael Thorne?"
Something flickered across Blaire's face. Fast. Controlled. But he caught it.
