Chapter 4
The bell over the door chimed. Cara glanced up from wiping down the counter. An electric charge zinged from her head all the way to her toes.
Mr. Tall, Dark and Very-Much-FBI filled the doorway.
She forced a smile. "Coffee?"
"Sure. Black."
"Coming right up."
She turned to the espresso machine before he could read her expression. She was good. But so was he. The filter slipped through her fingers. She caught it, fumbling the coffee grounds. Most made it into the basket. The carafe rattled against the warming plate.
Smooth, Cara. Definitely not suspicious.
She forced a laugh that sounded wrong even to her own ears. "Sorry. Long morning."
The man said nothing.
She could feel him watching her, his stillness somehow louder than shouting.
He wasn’t here for coffee.
She couldn’t stop replaying the scene on the beach. The dead man’s blank face. The purple-black bruising on his wrists. And Gabe Sawyer, taking in every detail of the scene.
The coffee brewed with agonizing slowness. She poured it into one of the handmade ceramic mugs Pearl had donated when Cara first opened. The steam curled up between them like smoke signals she couldn't decode.
"Here you go." She slid the mug across the counter. "On the house. Welcome to Haven Cove."
He wrapped both hands around it but didn't drink. Just held it like he was testing the temperature. Or maybe testing her.
Then, casually, like he was commenting on the weather: "You noticed the marks on the victim's wrists before anyone else."
Cara's throat went dry as week-old bread.
"Oh. Um. Lucky guess?"
His eyes narrowed. "Most people would've seen a drowning victim. You saw ligature marks."
"My brain just... notices things. Occupational hazard."
One eyebrow lifted fractionally. "You're a baker."
"Yes. Exactly. Baking requires noticing things. Like, you know, if the dough is over-proofed or the oven temperature is wrong or if—" Stop talking. "—things."
Nailed it, Cara. Perfectly convincing.
He set the coffee down without drinking it.
Cara hated how effective the silence was. She’d used the same technique a million times during cons. Torture the mark with silence until they rushed to fill it. Create discomfort, let the subject fill the void, usually by agreeing to whatever scam she and her team were trying to drag them into.
Yeah, she knew exactly what he was doing, and yet it still worked.
She gripped the edge of the counter to keep from fidgeting. From explaining. From giving him anything else to analyze.
The espresso machine hissed behind her.
"Have you ever worked in law enforcement?" His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. Which somehow made it worse.
Her heart stuttered, then kicked into overdrive.
"Me? No. Absolutely not." The words tumbled out too fast. "I wouldn't even know how to file a police report. I mean, I'm sure there's paperwork involved. Government forms are so complicated, right? Not that I—"
Stop. Talking.
His eyebrow lifted again. "I find that hard to believe."
She forced a smile that felt like it might crack her face in half. "Trust me. I'm extremely non-official. Very civilian. Super not-law-enforcement-related."
He studied her for a long moment. She could see him filing away every nervous tell, every too-quick response.
Then the FBI agent mask slipped just enough to show the scared brother underneath.
"My brother's missing." His voice carried a vulnerability that hit her like a physical blow. "If you know anything…."
This wasn't an interrogation technique. This was real. Raw.
"Walk me through it again," he said. "The victim. What exactly did he ask you?"
Cara's stomach dropped. "I already told you—"
"I know. But sometimes details surface on the second pass."
He wasn’t wrong. She swallowed and forced herself to recall that afternoon three weeks ago. "He came in close to closing. Ordered coffee and asked if I'd lived here long. General small talk."
"And then?"
"Then he asked about the marina. Who ran it, if I knew the history of the docks. Whether there'd been any unusual activity lately." She shook her head. "I told him I didn't know much. I've only been here six months. He seemed disappointed but didn't push."
Gabe's jaw tightened. "Unusual activity. Those were his words?"
"Yes."
"Did he mention anyone by name? Any specific boats or businesses?"
"No. Nothing like that." Guilt twisted through her chest. "I'm sorry. I wish I knew more."
Gabe exhaled slowly. His gaze shifted to the window, toward the ocean beyond. "What was he looking for?" The question seemed directed more at himself than her. "David disappears around the same time this guy shows up asking questions. Then the guy ends up dead on the beach."
The words hung in the air.
Something cold slithered down her spine. She grabbed the closest dishtowel, twisting it in her hands. What if the dead man being in town had something to do with her?
What if someone was looking for Carly Reid?
There were plenty on both sides of the law who'd be happy to take her down. Any agent, the one in front of her included, would arrest her in a hot second. And then there were the shadowy figures who'd ordered Schenkman killed.
No. That was paranoid. Ridiculous.
Or not.
And then something worse occurred to her.
Even if the dead man hadn't been in town looking for her, she couldn't chance a sharp FBI agent like Gabe Sawyer turning over every stone he could grasp. He was desperate to find his brother.
He wasn't going to leave Haven Cove. Not until he found what he was looking for.
And if she wasn't careful, that might be her.
He picked up the untouched coffee, took a single sip, then set it down with careful precision. "I'll be in town as long as it takes." His voice was quiet but absolute. "If you remember anything else, here's my card."
He slid a business card across the counter. The edge caught on a dusting of flour she'd missed. White powder clung to the black ink.
She picked it up. The cardstock felt heavy, official. FBI seal embossed in the corner. Her fingertips left faint prints in the flour residue.
"Sometimes memories surface when you're not trying so hard." He studied her face one more time, then glanced toward the ocean visible through the front window. "Funny thing about the past. You think you've buried it deep, but it keeps washing back up on shore."
The words landed like a punch.
He nodded once—a gesture that somehow conveyed both courtesy and certainty—then turned and walked out.
The bell above the door jingled cheerfully, completely at odds with the tension still crackling through the bakery.
Cara watched through the window as he climbed into his rental SUV. The scent of coffee and yeast hung thick in the air, usually comforting, now suffocating. She didn't exhale until he pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner toward the marina.
Then her legs went weak.
She sank onto one of the mismatched stools. The wood felt rough under her palms, worn smooth in some spots, splintered in others. She dropped her head into her hands. Her fingers came away dusty with flour and sugar.
If he stays, he'll dig.
If he digs, he'll find Carly Reid.
If he finds Carly Reid, I lose everything.
The apartment upstairs that felt like home for the first time in years.
The community that was starting to accept her.
The bakery that was actually turning into something real, smelling of butter and vanilla and fresh bread instead of fear.
The faith she'd been building, piece by fragile piece, like a sourdough starter that finally decided to cooperate.
All of it gone.
The thought crystallized into something sharp and urgent.
She needed to run her own investigation into the murder. Figure out if it connected to Carly Reid or David Sawyer or something else entirely. Control the narrative before Gabe's investigation collided with her carefully constructed new life.
Planning cons was nothing more than deep investigation. She knew how to ask questions without seeming to. How to piece together a story from fragments and whispers.
She could do this.
She had to.
She stared out at the ocean through the front window. Waves rolling in. Waves rolling out. Relentless. Inevitable.
Like the past she'd been running from.
Like the future closing in.
She whispered to the empty bakery: "Lord, if You want me to stay here, I need answers."
Time to find out what happened to David Sawyer.
And who that body on the beach really was.
Before either truth destroyed her.