Deep Water (Sweet and Sawyer Romantic Suspense #1)

Prologue

Manhattan, New York

Carly Reid studied herself one last time in the bathroom mirror, trying to ignore the lead weight that had taken up residence in her stomach. The navy dress screamed "trustworthy witness." The woman wearing it whispered, "professional liar."

Hard to say which one was telling the truth.

She adjusted the small silver cross at her throat—her one purchase in the last year that hadn't been about the con. That one had been about hope. About the possibility that someone like her could actually be forgiven for a lifetime of calculated deceptions.

And she was so close now. A day away, maybe two, from real freedom for the first time in her life.

One last day as a former con woman and current felon. And one last task.

The woman who walked out of that courthouse wouldn't be the con artist who'd sold forged Monets to multi-millionaires.

Wouldn't be the convict who'd served three years before taking a deal.

Wouldn't even be the woman who'd spent the last year undercover at Meridian Capital, gathering evidence on the biggest securities fraud case in a decade.

She'd fulfilled her end of the bargain. One year undercover. Evidence gathered. Meridian Capital’s operation dismantled.

Freedom. Finally. Earned, not stolen.

Where she'd go after, she hadn't decided. Maybe Denver. Or Boston. Somewhere big enough to disappear but small enough to feel safe. A city where she could start fresh with a clean record and no one asking questions about her past.

The apartment buzzer made her jump, sloshing coffee onto the navy dress.

"Perfect," she muttered, dabbing at the stain with a dish towel. "Nothing says 'reformed criminal' like showing up to testimony looking like you lost a fight with a cappuccino."

Eight twenty. Dominic Adler was early. The NYPD Captain who'd become her handler usually rolled in exactly on time with terrible coffee, a disappointed expression that could make hardened criminals weep, and Dad jokes so bad they counted as enhanced interrogation.

She grabbed her purse—contents: tissues, lip gloss, three forms of fake ID she'd forgotten to mention to the NYPD (old habits died hard, apparently died kicking and screaming), and enough cash to get to Canada if things went sideways.

Not that she planned to run.

Probably.

She opened the door with her best "ready to testify and destroy a criminal empire" smile.

It slid straight off her face.

Dom looked like someone had just told him the Knicks had moved to New Jersey. Then moved back. Then disbanded entirely and taken up competitive knitting.

"Sit down, Carly."

"That bad?" Her hand automatically checked for the nearest exits. Window to the fire escape. Back door through the bedroom. Front door currently blocked by one large, grim-looking detective who'd somehow gotten paler since yesterday, which she hadn't thought was physically possible.

"Someone got to our witness. Schlenkman's dead."

The words didn't compute.

She'd spent a year undercover, gathering evidence on Roger Schlenkman's securities fraud operation. A year of pretending to be a financial analyst while actually being a former criminal playing a reformed criminal pretending to be a criminal again.

Dom moved to the window, checking the street with the paranoia of someone who'd survived thirty years in the NYPD by assuming everyone was out to get him. Turns out he'd been right.

"Execution-style. Right in his cell. With a full contingent of guards who all mysteriously went for coffee at the same time."

"But the trial—"

Her head hurt just thinking about the layers.

"Derivatives," she breathed. "I learned about derivatives for this. Do you know how boring derivatives are? They're like if math and sadness had a baby."

"Is over. You're not testifying." His jaw worked like he was chewing broken glass and finding it only slightly more palatable than this conversation. "It gets worse. The DA wants to send you back to prison to finish your original sentence."

"What?" The word came out as an undignified squeak. "I did everything they asked. I spent a year pretending to care about portfolio diversification. I made small talk about market volatility. Do you have any idea how soul-crushing that is?"

"Yeah, well, someone high up wants this buried. The investigation. Your involvement. All of it. They're calling the deal void."

"They can't do that."

"They can. They did." He met her eyes. "And I'm supposed to take you straight to lockup after we make an appearance at the courthouse."

Back to prison. Her carefully constructed new life evaporating like—like something that evaporated really fast. She was too panicked for good metaphors.

"That's not happening," Dom said.

She blinked. "What?"

"You'll never finish your sentence alive. Whoever killed Schlenkman has reach. Political connections. The ability to execute someone surrounded by law enforcement and make everyone look the other way." He let the backpack slide off his shoulder. "You're going to run."

"No! My pardon—the deal—"

"Is dead. Like you'll be if you stay." He pulled papers from the backpack. "I have a contingency plan."

"No way. You can't help me. You'll lose your job. Your pension." She twisted her hands together, the same nervous tell she'd spent years training herself out of. Some habits returned under stress. "You'll end up like me."

"Worth it." He thrust an envelope at her. "You kept your end of the deal. Someone needs to keep theirs."

She wanted to argue. Should argue. But he was already pulling out documents.

"I checked in at the precinct at 7:00. Stopped at Murphy's Diner at 7:45.

Three witnesses saw me have coffee and complain about the Knicks' terrible season—which, for the record, is a legitimate grievance.

I'm on their security camera. I headed to the restroom ten minutes ago.

" He checked his watch. "I'll slip back through the bathroom window in twelve minutes. Left my phone on the table."

"Dom—"

"Far as anyone knows, I never left Murphy's." He opened the envelope for her, impatient.

Oregon driver's license. Social Security card. Birth certificate. All in the name of Cara Sweet.

She looked up at him. "Cara Sweet? Seriously? That's not a name, that's a My Little Pony character."

"You're my aunt Margaret's grandniece. Keep reading."

"Your aunt died two months ago and left me—left Cara—a bakery?" She tried to shove the papers back at him. "I can't take this. It's yours. Your inheritance. Your kids—"

"Will understand someday." He shrugged with forced casualness that didn't fool either of them. "You'll take good care of it until we figure out what's next. This is temporary. Just until things cool down and we can get your deal reinstated properly."

"I can't bake."

"Really?" He rolled his eyes in a way that suggested he'd been saving that gesture for exactly this moment.

"That's your concern? You learned to spot fraudulent derivatives and analyze portfolio risk assessments.

Sourdough should be easier." He pulled out keys.

"There's an apartment upstairs. Small town called Haven Cove.

Population around two thousand. Quiet. Safe. Boring."

"Boring," she repeated. After a year of adrenaline and looking over her shoulder, boring sounded like a five-star vacation in Tahiti.

"You'll hate it," he predicted. "It's perfect."

He handed over the backpack. "Ten thousand cash.

Maps. Burner phone. Will. Contact information for a lawyer who'll verify your story—he owes me a favor and doesn't ask questions.

" He eyed her outfit. "Get yourself new clothes first thing.

It's the Pacific Northwest, not Times Square. Think jeans and flannel."

"I hate flannel."

"You love flannel now. You also love early mornings, small talk about weather patterns, and saying things like, ‘can I reheat that coffee?'"

"I'd rather go back to prison."

"Even if that was an option, it’s not." His voice gentled, and that scared her more than anything else had. "Carly, I saw what happened to you in there. In the chapel. That was real, wasn't it?"

She touched the silver cross. A year ago, she'd hit bottom hard enough to leave a crater.

Twenty-three months into her sentence, finally realizing her boyfriend had set her up to take the fall while he disappeared with the millions they'd stolen.

She'd gone to the prison chapel planning to hide from her cellmate's endless chatter about her upcoming parole.

She'd stayed because for the first time in her life, someone was offering forgiveness without a catch. No angle. No con. Just: You're loved anyway.

It had wrecked her. In the best possible way.

"Yeah," she whispered. "It's real."

"Good. Hold onto it. You're going to need it." He moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing."

"What?"

"I'm proud of you, kid."

The words hit her like a physical blow. The only father figure she'd ever had. The only person who'd seen past the con artist to find someone worth saving.

Her throat burned. "Dom—"

"Don't." He opened the door. "Get to Oregon. Become Cara Sweet. Bake terrible bread. Live a boring life. Stay alive. I'll be in touch once it's safe." He attempted a smile. It slid right off his face like oil on water. "Might be a while. A long while."

"What if they find me?"

This time his grin was genuine. "You're too good for that. You've been lying since you could talk. Time to put those skills to good use—lie yourself into an honest life."

Then he was gone. The door clicked shut with the finality of a cell door.

Except this time, she was on the outside.

Sort of.

Lord, she prayed, the word unfamiliar and heavy in her mind. I don’t know how to ask You for anything. I don’t know if I’m allowed to.

I’ve done things I can’t justify. Things I still don’t know how to repent of.

But if mercy is real—if grace reaches this far—I need it now.

The prayer sat awkwardly in her chest, unfinished and uncertain, like a language she didn’t yet know how to speak.

She grabbed the backpack and took one last look at her apartment.

"Cara Sweet," she said to the empty apartment. "Baker. Small-town nobody. Person who definitely doesn't have a criminal record or know seventeen ways to pick a lock."

Outside, a siren wailed past. Inside, the radiator hissed like it was laughing at her.

Time to become someone else.

Again.