Page 11 of Crosscurrent

The bell over the front door rang.

Probably the woman from the lighthouse, in for her two sugar cookies before close. Then Cara heard the boots.

The lighthouse volunteer always wore sandals.

Cara’s hands, both buried in pale purple frosting, went still.

The footfalls were soft — too soft for the floorboards at the bakery’s front, which had a very specific groan. Quiet meant deliberate. Quiet meant trained.

A chill prickled up between her shoulder blades for no reason she could name. The Vancouver job was three weeks closed and clean. The team’s operational status was bored. Whoever had walked into her bakery had no business with Cara Sweet.

Still, her nervous system clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.

You own this bakery. You have nothing to hide.

At the moment.

“I got this,” she told Diane. She wiped her right hand on the towel slung over her shoulder, left still gloved in lavender, and headed for the front counter.

Marisa Vega, Haven Cove’s new chief of police, was already three steps in, hands relaxed at her sides. Cara had nodded at her once or twice at Pearl’s Grocery; she’d never seen her in Sugar and Salt before. Mid-forties, by Cara’s guess. Piper’s gossip line had her as Cuban American — dark hair pulled into a low knot that looked like a uniform decision more than a style one. The uniform was smaller than the one Gabe used to wear; the gun belt said still on duty.

Vega eyed Cara with that expression cops seemed to cultivate, interest, but no hint of her thoughts.

Cara’s body knew the look before her mind caught up. Doors. Exits. Civilians. Hands.

She smiled the smile she’d built for moments like this one — wide enough to be warm, narrow enough to be polite. “Chief. We’re closing in a few minutes, but I can pull something for you to go.”

“I’ll have it here, if that’s all right.”

Here. Not to-go.

“Of course. What can I get you?”

“Coffee. Whatever’s still hot.” Vega’s eyes swung toward the kitchen and back. “And one of those chocolate chip sea salt cookies.”

Cara plated the cookie, poured the coffee, and slid the tray across the counter. “On the house, Chief.”

Frowning, Vega shook her head. “That’s a no.”

“It’s a welcome-to-the-neighborhood.”

“It’s three weeks late for welcome-to-the-neighborhood. And it’s still a no.” Vega had a ten out before Cara could close the register drawer she hadn’t opened. “I won’t take a free cookie from somebody whose town I’m policing.”

Three weeks late. Noted.

Cara took the bill.

“Keep the change,” Vega said, and lifted her tray. She picked the two-top in the dead center of the front room — line of sight to the counter, the front door, the kitchen pass-through. The chair scraped back, then squeaked twice as she sat.

Cara had read a thousand marks, but she was being read by one now.

Might as well make it easy on the woman. She crossed to the table. “Was the cookie all right?”

“The cookie was excellent.” Vega tipped her head toward the empty chair. “Sit a minute, Ms. Sweet?”

Half request, half order. Cara sat.

“I’ve been hearing your name around town,” Vega said. Pleasant, neutral, weather.