Chapter 9
The Subaru’s engine roared to life. Cara threw it into reverse, her headlights sweeping across the dark pines as she backed out of the turnout. Gravel sprayed. Her hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make her knuckles ache.
She didn't look back.
Her breath came too fast. Too shallow. Like she'd just sprinted a mile instead of climbing through a motel window.
Breathe. Just breathe. You're fine. You got out.
She checked her rearview mirror for the fifteenth time. Still nothing but darkness. No headlights. No pursuit. Just the forest pressing in from both sides like it wanted to swallow the road whole.
Her phone sat in the cup holder, dark and silent. No missed calls. No texts. No evidence anyone had noticed she'd left Haven Cove after midnight to commit a felony.
The notepad pressed against her ribs through her jacket pocket.
Lord, I know I just broke about six laws. But I'm trying to help. That counts for something, right?
The prayer felt desperate. Bargaining with the Lord was becoming a bad habit.
She spent the entire drive back to town with her shoulders tensed, trying to prepare herself for the sight of Gabe Sawyer’s headlights in her rearview mirror. All she saw was mist.
Not that it made her feel any better.
Haven Cove finally appeared through the trees. Dark. Quiet. Peaceful in the way small towns were at one in the morning when normal people were asleep in their beds.
She parked in the alley behind the bakery and killed the engine. Sat there for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal and her own ragged breathing.
Her legs shook when she climbed out.
She took the back stairs two at a time, fumbled with her keys, and finally got the door open. Locked it behind her. Threw the deadbolt. Added the chain for good measure.
Then stood there in the darkness of her apartment, back pressed against the door, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
The silence was deafening after the roar of the highway. After the terror of the closet. After Gabe's whispered warning against her ear and the solid warmth of his chest at her back.
She turned on the lamp beside the couch. Just one. Enough to see by without advertising to the whole town that she was awake at this hour.
Her hands were still shaking.
Cara crossed to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Drank it. Refilled it.
Pull it together. You've done worse. You've survived worse.
She grabbed the notepad from her pocket, sat at the kitchen table and started reading.
DS. David Sawyer. Had to be. The initials appeared multiple times, always with dates and times. Meeting locations. The overlook. A warehouse near the docks. Coordinates that meant nothing to her without a map.
Ruiz had been tracking someone. He documented boat schedules. Shipping manifests. Names she didn't recognize but that clearly meant something to the PI.
She flipped through page after page. Her heart rate slowly returning to normal as the pattern became clear. Not even a mention of his visit to the bakery.
This wasn't about her. The PI hadn't known she existed.
The relief hit her like a physical wave. Her shoulders sagged. Her eyes burned.
Thank You. Thank You thank You thank You.
The prayer was fervent. Genuine. The kind that came from the deepest part of her soul.
Her carefully constructed new life was still safe.
Mostly.
She looked at the notebook again. Read through the notes with fresh eyes. David Sawyer had been in Haven Cove. He hired Ruiz.
Cara closed the notebook slowly.
She had to give this to Gabe. Tomorrow. First thing.
But first, she needed a story. One good enough to con a smart field agent. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling as ideas floated past. Finally, a play occurred to her.
Yeah. She could sell that. She'd sold worse.
The con artist brain that never really shut off spun through possibilities. Tested angles. Found the story that would hold up under scrutiny from a man trained to spot lies.
It would work. It had to.