Page 100 of Riptide
"Cutter's Point," Ellie had said. "Old fishing shack about a quarter mile off the main road. His rental's tucked behind it. Plate matches."
She'd found him. Methodical, patient Ellie had done exactly what she’d been trained to do. While he'd been chasing his own tail between Cara and Blaire, Ellie had been working the case.
The turnoff appeared, barely visible—a gap in the scrub brush that most people would drive right past. Gabe killed the engine and coasted the last hundred yards, stopping behind Ellie's cruiser.
She was waiting outside, weapon drawn but pointed at the ground.
"He's still inside," she said quietly as Gabe approached. "Hasn't moved in twenty minutes. I can see him through the window—just sitting there. Staring at nothing."
"Armed?"
"Didn't see a weapon. But I haven't approached."
Gabe studied the shack. Weathered boards, rusted tin roof, the kind of place fishermen used to store gear before the industry moved south. Now it was just another forgotten structure slowly returning to the earth.
A single light glowed inside. Through the grimy window, he could make out a figure hunched at a table.
He glanced down at his jeans and henley. No vest, no uniform. He'd rushed straight from the diner without thinking. Rookie mistake.
"I'll take the front. You cover the back in case he runs." He drew his off-duty weapon from his ankle holster. "And Ellie? If this goes sideways, you call for backup before you come in. Understood?"
She looked like she wanted to argue, but nodded and melted into the darkness, circling wide.
Gabe approached the door, hyper-aware of how exposed he was. No vest. No backup closer than twenty minutes. Just him and a desperate man who'd already tried to kill once.
He knocked. Hard. "Michael Thorne. Haven Cove Police. Open the door."
Silence. Then shuffling. The creak of a chair.
The door swung open.
Thorne looked like a man who hadn't slept in days. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes, stubble that had crossed the line into beard territory, clothes wrinkled and stained. He blinked at Gabe like someone waking from a nightmare.
"I wondered how long it would take." His voice was flat. Exhausted.
"Hands where I can see them. Step outside."
Thorne complied without resistance. Raised his hands slowly, shuffled onto the small porch, stood there swaying slightly in the salt wind.
No fight. No flight. Just... surrender.
"Michael Thorne, you're under arrest for assault." Gabe holstered his weapon long enough to cuff him, reciting Miranda rights on autopilot. "You have the right to remain silent..."
Thorne laughed. It was a broken sound, more sob than humor. "I've been silent for years. Lot of good it did me."
Ellie appeared from the side of the shack, weapon lowered. Her eyes met Gabe's—you okay?—and he nodded.
"Get him in my vehicle. I want to look around before we go."
The shack's interior was sparse. A cot with tangled blankets. A hot plate and some canned food. The table Thorne had been sitting at, covered with papers and a laptop that looked like it had seen better days.
Gabe pulled on gloves and flipped through the papers. Printouts of Blaire Mitchell's Instagram posts. Maps of Haven Cove with locations circled—the inn, the hardware store, the coastal road where her brakes had failed. Notes in cramped handwriting, some of it barely legible.
She's here. Finally. End this.
Bakery? Connection to target?
Parking lot. 8 PM. Alone.
