Chapter 2
Cara stood next to Wade as they waited for the police to approach. She fought the urge to run, suspecting Wade was doing the same. The silence between them was almost comfortable, two performers waiting for their audience to get into position.
Wade had shifted into what she was starting to think of as his harmless fisherman stance: weight on one hip, shoulders slightly slumped.
But she noticed how he'd positioned himself with clear sightlines to both the road and the waterline.
His hand occasionally drifted to his pocket, checking for something.
Weapon? Phone? Old habit from reaching for equipment that wasn't there anymore?
Chief Randy Hale's squad car door slammed. The middle-aged Hale hauled himself out with all the urgency of someone approaching a parking meter. Deputy Hank Brewer followed, a younger, livelier version of the chief, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Morning, Miss Sweet." Hale lifted a hand in greeting, his uniform shirt straining against a belly that spoke of too many free meals at Reagan's diner. "Wade. Heard we got a floater."
Cara felt Wade stiffen minutely beside her. Floater. Like the body was just debris.
"Looks like," Wade answered mildly. "Found him when I was heading out to check my engines."
"Happens sometimes." Brewer hadn't even gotten close enough to see the body properly. "Tourists don't respect the ocean."
A rental SUV pulled up hard beside the squad car, spraying gravel. The door opened before it fully stopped. Cara went on high alert. She sensed Wade do the same, though his only outward reaction was to pull his fishing cap lower over his eyes.
The man who stepped out moved with desperate purpose barely held in check. Six-two, maybe six-three. Dark hair cut regulation short. FBI, had to be. But it was the controlled panic in his movements that made her stomach clench.
"Gabe Sawyer, FBI," he said, already moving toward the body, credentials out but barely showing them. "Is it—I need to see—"
His voice cracked slightly. He was already past them, heading for the water.
"Wait," Hale started, but Sawyer was already at the body.
"Turn him over," Sawyer ordered, his composure clearly hanging by a thread. "Now."
"We need to wait for—"
"Turn him over!" The command came out raw. "My brother's been missing for three weeks. David Sawyer. He was working a story in this area. Just—please."
Hale and Brewer exchanged glances, then scuffled through the sand to the body.
"You’ll want gloves for that," Wade said.
Hale shot him an irritated look but pulled on latex gloves. Brewer followed suit. They stepped into the knee-high surf and rolled the corpse over. Water dribbled from soaked fabric. Sand sloughed away from features bloated by seawater.
The agent took one step forward. Two. Then stopped.
"It's not him." The words came out as a whisper. Then stronger: "It's not David."
His knees actually buckled slightly. He caught himself, one hand going out as if to grab something that wasn't there. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, like he'd just run miles.
"You're sure?" Hale asked.
"I'm sure." Sawyer bent forward, hands on his knees, just breathing. The relief was so intense it was almost painful to witness. "I've never seen this man before."
Cara found herself looking away, giving him a moment of privacy in his relief. Beside her, Wade had done the same, studying the horizon with sudden interest.
"Thank you, Lord," Sawyer muttered. He straightened slowly, pulling himself together piece by piece. When he turned back to face them, the FBI agent was back.
But his hands were still shaking slightly. "Okay," he said, more to himself than them. "Okay."
Then he bowed his head. “Lord have mercy. And give strength to whoever's missing him right now."
Cara's stomach dropped for a different reason.
She recognized the man.
Three weeks ago, he'd sat at her corner table for two hours.
Coffee and a cranberry muffin. Notebook out.
Asking questions about long-time residents, whether anyone had been around twenty or thirty years.
The kind of carefully crafted questions that made her nervous because they were exactly the kind she would ask if she were investigating something.
Her mouth went dry.
She could stay quiet. Let them figure it out themselves. Keep her head down, her profile low, her past buried where it belonged.
What would a normal person do?
A normal person would tell the FBI agent that yes, she'd seen the victim, talked to him, might have information that could help.
Except normal people didn't have criminal records that could send them back to prison.
But a good person—the person she was trying to become—wouldn't let a brother stay missing because she was too scared to help.
Lord, I'm trying to do the right thing here. Please don't let it destroy everything.
She took a breath. "I think I’ve seen him before. The man. The…body."
Sawyer spun around. "You recognize him?"
"Maybe? I think so." She wrapped her arms around herself. "He came into the bakery. About three weeks ago? He ordered coffee and a cranberry muffin. Sat at the corner table for a couple hours."
"Did he give a name?" Sawyer pulled out a small notebook.
"No name. But he asked about the town. Said he was interested in local history." She made herself look at the body again, then quickly away. "I told him to check with Mrs. Henley at the historical society. She's been here forever, loves to talk about the old days. I bet she’d know more."
"Three weeks ago." Sawyer's voice went flat. "Same time David went silent."
"What kind of questions about history?" Hale asked, and there was something sharp in his tone.
She shrugged, turning away from the body. "Just... general stuff. How long people had lived here, whether there were any families who'd been around for decades."
Sawyer looked at the body again. The relief that it wasn't his brother was still visible in his posture, but now it was mixed with determination. "My brother was researching the past, too," he said. "Now one's dead and one's missing."
"Maybe your brother lost cell service," Brewer offered. "Happens a lot up the coast."
Sawyer's look could have frozen water. "For three weeks?"
Cara backed away. "I should go. My bakery opens soon."
"I'll need a full statement," Sawyer said, but his attention was already returning to the body, cataloging details. "Everything he said, how long he stayed, anything you remember."
"Of course. I'll be at the bakery all day."
She and Wade turned to leave together.
"That was intense," Wade said once they were out of earshot.
"He thought it was his brother."
"Yeah." Wade's voice was thoughtful. "Man was about to fall apart. Then pulled it together in seconds. That's training."
"Or desperation."
"Maybe both." Wade glanced back. "He's not going to let this go. Connection to his missing brother? He'll tear this town apart looking for answers."
She knew Wade was right. Gabe Sawyer had just gone from desperate family member to determined federal agent. And she was now the only person who'd admitted to talking to a murder victim.
"That was smart, though," Wade continued. "Telling them you recognized him."
"The truth is usually smarter than lies," she said, then almost laughed at the irony. Her whole life was a lie.
"Usually," Wade agreed, and something in his tone suggested he understood the irony too.
They reached the point where their paths diverged.
"Be careful," Wade said. "FBI agent with a personal stake? That's dangerous for everyone."
"Even innocent bakers?"
"Especially innocent bakers who notice things they shouldn't."
She watched him walk toward the marina, then climbed her deck steps. When she looked back, Gabe Sawyer was standing over the body, phone pressed to his ear, but his eyes were on her.
The relief on his face when he'd seen it wasn't David—that had been real, raw, devastating in its intensity. But now that relief was transforming into something else.
Determination.
And she was directly in his path.
Not a place for Cara Sweet, fugitive, should be.