Page 97 of Riptide
"To locate a safety deposit box or storage unit that could be anywhere?" Reagan shook her head. "That's not enough time. Plus, you’re assuming Blaire will actually wait until midnight."
"So what? We just give up?" Tom's voice cracked. "Let her destroy Cara's life?"
"Nobody's giving up." Wade's voice was calm. Steady. The voice of a man who'd faced impossible odds before. "But we need to be realistic about our options."
Cara finally looked up. Three faces staring at her—worried, determined, ready to fight.
They'd risked everything for her. And now they were going to watch her fall.
"Maybe..." Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat, tried again. "Maybe it's time to stop running."
"Cara, no." Reagan stepped forward. "We can figure this out?—"
"She's right about one thing. I've been lying since the day I got here. To everyone." Cara set her phone on the table, stared at it like it might explode. "Maybe this is just... the bill coming due."
"That's not how this works." Wade moved to stand beside her. "You made mistakes, I’m guessing.”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “That’s a kind way to put it.”
He grunted. “So what? We all have. How do you think most of us ended up in the Cove? You're trying to make up for them. That counts for something."
"Does it? When Gabe finds out who I really am—what I really did—do you think he'll see it that way?"
No one answered. Because they all knew the truth.
Gabe Sawyer, former FBI, current police chief, the most honest man any of them had ever met—wasn't going to look at Cara Sweet the same way once even part of her web of lies unraveled.
Some lies were too big to forgive.
"No way that woman wins.” Tom's voice was quiet but fierce. "I'm not giving up. None of us are."
Cara looked at her friends. At the people who'd chosen her, fought for her, believed in her even when she couldn't believe in herself.
She nodded slowly. "Okay. What do we do?"
The planning began. Ideas thrown out, rejected, refined. Tom diving deeper into Blaire's digital footprint. Reagan and Wade strategizing physical surveillance, trying to track Blaire's movements.
But underneath the activity, underneath the desperate hope, Cara felt the clock ticking.
32
Cara slidinto a back booth at the diner, cracked vinyl squeaking under her, and tried to remember the last time she'd sat somewhere without calculating the exits. The lunch rush was winding down. A couple of fishermen argued quietly at the counter. Old Mr. Hendricks nursed his eternal decaf by the window. Normal. Completely, maddeningly normal.
Gabe had called an hour ago. "We need to talk. Somewhere neutral." His voice had been careful, controlled—the voice of a cop, not a friend.
He walked in two minutes later. Out of uniform—jeans, a gray henley that did unfair things to his shoulders, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He spotted her immediately, hesitated for just a moment, then crossed to her booth.
"Thanks for meeting me." He slid in across from her.
"You said it was important."
Reagan appeared at the table like she'd materialized from thin air. "Coffee?"
"Please." Gabe managed a tired smile. "Black."
"Cara? Refill?"
"I'm fine."
