Chapter 1
Six months later
The perfect place to hide.
The absence of city noise still caught her off guard. Like the world was holding its breath. Or maybe that was just her, waiting for her past to find her.
Half a year of playing Cara Sweet, small-town baker. She'd gotten pretty good at it. Even the baking part. Ish.
"Lord, thank You for this sanctuary," she murmured, then glanced at the kitchen behind her where batch number three of the morning's croissants glistened, only slightly over-baked. "Though if You could help me with the actual baking, that would be great."
The prayer came easier now than six months ago. Less like she was faking it, more like talking to someone who might actually be listening. Someone who didn't judge her for the seventeen different ways she knew how to forge a signature.
Her shoulders ached from hauling fifty-pound flour bags yesterday. Who knew the bags were so large? Or that there were twelve different types? Or that using the wrong one would result in what her teenaged afternoon helper, Piper, had dubbed "death biscuits"?
Inside, three industrial ovens hummed. Two with sourdough that generally sold out these days. One with croissants that were way more edible than the batches she’d made in June. The scent of butter and yeast drifted through the open door, mixed with just a hint of "what's burning?"
Or maybe that was just her bakery PTSD.
She took a long sip of coffee—the one thing she could reliably make properly. Probably because it didn't involve yeast. Yeast was her nemesis. Yeast was evil. Yeast had opinions.
At least Agnes was cooperating today. Agnes—her sourdough starter—had finally decided to stop being difficult after weeks of careful feeding and what Cara was pretty sure counted as negotiation. The dough had the right elasticity, the perfect subtle sheen. Like a con finally coming together.
Not that she thought about cons anymore.
Much.
From her elevated position on the deck, she could see the whole sweep of the beach.
To her left, the marina's weathered pilings rose from the water like fingers.
Beyond them, boats bobbed between the breakwater and Haven Creek.
To her right, the town's main street ran parallel to the shore—all two blocks of it.
She traced escape routes automatically. Back stairs to the alley.
Front entrance through Main Street. Over the deck railing—eight-foot drop to sand, tuck and roll to avoid injury.
From there: marina (steal a boat), town (steal a car), or straight into the water (terrible plan, but better than capture).
She winced. Normal people didn't map escape routes from their own decks every morning.
Movement by the water caught her eye.
Husky, quiet, Wade Patterson stood at the tide line, hands in the pockets of his worn fishing jacket, head tilted slightly like he was considering whether the morning catch would be worth the effort. Casual. Unconcerned.
Except his feet were planted exactly shoulder-width apart. Weight balanced. Ready to move in any direction.
And he wasn't looking at the conditions. He was looking at something in the surf.
Not your problem. Not your business. You're a baker. Bakers don't investigate things. Bakers bake.
Her feet carried her down the wooden steps anyway, the boards creaking under her weight. Old habits. The need-to-know what danger might be coming for her.
The sand was cold and damp through her shoes—she'd forgotten she was wearing her good sneakers. Well, her only sneakers that didn't have flour permanently embedded in the fabric.
"Wade?" She pitched her voice carefully. Mild concern. Just his small-town neighbor checking in.
He turned slowly, like someone who'd just noticed the weather was changing. "Morning, Cara." His voice carried that particular Pacific Northwest drawl he'd perfected. Not quite Alaska, not quite Oregon. Carefully nowhere. "Kinda early for a beach walk."
"Saw you from the deck." She kept moving closer, letting her eyes go wide as she saw what he'd been looking at. "Is that—?"
"Yup." He scratched his jaw, the picture of mild discomfort. "Was heading over to the marina. Found him instead."
She let out a small gasp. Pressed a hand to her chest. Took a half-step back like any normal person would when confronted with death. All the while checking every detail.
A body, floating close to shore in less than two feet of water, on his back.
Male, medium build, dark hair. Expensive clothes—designer jeans and a thick sweater under a puffy vest. Bruising on the wrists where they showed above the water line.
Purple-black. Eight to twelve hours old.
Rope, not zip ties. The body positioned face-down but at an angle that suggested dragging, not floating.
Sand patterns inconsistent with tidal deposit.
Lord, wrap him in your mercy. She didn't add the third part—Lord, please help me if this connects to my past—but thought it anyway.
"Should we pull him out?" she asked, making sure her voice carried exactly the right tremor. "He's so close to shore. Maybe he's still—"
"He's gone." Wade's tone was flat. Certain. "Been gone for hours."
"But shouldn't we—"
"Disturbing the body destroys evidence." He said it matter-of-factly, then seemed to catch himself. "I mean... the police will want everything exactly as we found it. For the investigation."
"That makes sense," she said. Then, because a normal person would ask: "How do you know he's... that there's no chance?"
Wade's eyes stayed on the body. "Color. Position. Water temperature." A pause. "Alaska fishing boats. You learn to recognize it."
Right. Alaska. Where he'd allegedly spent twenty years catching salmon.
"We should call someone." She pulled out her phone with deliberately shaking hands.
"Already did." Wade shifted his weight, and she caught how his eyes tracked the beach in both directions. Checking exits. Checking approaches. Just like she did. "Hale's on his way."
"Poor man," Cara breathed, wrapping her arms around herself. "Do you think he... fell? Hit his head?" She eyed the breakwater a quarter mile east.
Wade made a noncommittal sound. "Tide's tricky around here. Catches people off guard."
Except the tide was going out, not in. And had been for the last two hours. The body's position was all wrong for someone who’d gone in at the marina or the breakwater. Wade knew that. He was watching her to see if she knew it too.
"Those marks on his wrists," she said, then caught herself. "Are those... is that from seaweed?"
Wade's eyes sharpened for just a fraction of a second. "Could be. Ocean's full of things that can leave marks."
They stood there, two people pretending to be disturbed civilians, both carefully not mentioning that seaweed didn't leave contusions with that kind of uniformity. Or that the sand leading from the beach was disturbed in a drag pattern.
"You okay?" Wade asked. "If you need to head back inside..."
Testing her. Seeing if she'd take the out.
"I'm fine," she said, adding a small tremor to her voice. "Just... I've never seen anything like this before."
"Lucky you." His tone was dry enough to cure meat. "Some of us aren't that fortunate."
There it was. A tiny admission. A crack in the "simple fisherman" facade.
She looked at him more carefully. Early forties, according to local gossip. Twenty years fishing in Alaska, allegedly. But his stance was too perfect, too ready. And that thousand-yard stare wasn't from watching nets.
"You've seen this before." She made it half question, half statement.
"Different water." He shrugged, the movement controlled and economical. "Alaska can be rough. Boats go down. People go overboard. You learn not to look too close."
Except he was looking closely. He'd probably already estimated time of death, analyzed the pattern of injuries, and drawn the same conclusions she had.
"Must have been hard," she offered softly.
Wade's mouth quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Everything's hard until it isn't."
The sound of engines interrupted them. Chief Hale's squad car crunched onto the beach access road, followed by the ancient ambulance that served as Haven Cove's emergency services.
"Here comes the cavalry," Wade muttered. "All two and a half of them."
Cara bit back an inappropriate laugh. Even finding bodies, Wade Patterson had a sense of humor drier than her worst batch of overbaked sourdough.
"I should stay," she said. "In case they need a witness statement."
"Witness to what? We found him like this." Wade's tone was carefully neutral, but she caught the emphasis. We found him. Establishing their story. Creating alignment.
He knew she was playing a role.
And he was telling her he'd play along.