Chapter 12
Gabe stopped around the corner, notebook tucked inside his jacket pocket and let the air clear his head.
Cara Sweet was lying.
Not about everything. The fear in her eyes when she'd handed over the notebook had been real. The shame too. But the story about the controlling ex was pure fiction. Well-constructed. Emotionally resonant. Completely false.
He'd interviewed enough liars to know the difference.
His jaw tightened as he crossed to his SUV. If her secrets slowed his search for David, there would be nowhere for her to hide.
Lord, give me patience. And wisdom. Because I'm running low on both.
The prayer came automatically. Rough around the edges.
He climbed into the driver's seat and headed back to his rental. The ocean stretched out to his left, gray and restless under late afternoon clouds. Waves rolled in with the kind of relentless rhythm that should have been calming.
It wasn't.
David had been missing for three weeks. Marco Ruiz was dead. And the only person in Haven Cove who seemed to know anything useful was lying to his face.
The cabin was exactly as he'd left it. Sparse furniture. Ocean view wasted on someone who didn't care. His laptop sat open on the small dining table next to a half-empty coffee mug and the case files he'd been reviewing since yesterday.
Gabe pulled out Ruiz's notebook and spread it open.
The handwriting was neat. Dates ran down the left margin. Times. Meeting locations. Observations about boat traffic and police patrols.
And there, on the third page: DS. David Sawyer.
Gabe's chest tightened.
His brother had hired Ruiz. That much was clear. Multiple meetings documented. The overlook. A warehouse near the docks. Coordinates that Gabe would need to map later.
He flipped through more pages. References to "cleanup teams" that made his skin crawl now that Ruiz was dead. Notes about corrupt police activity. Patterns of suspicious boats arriving at odd hours with no logged cargo.
David had been investigating something big. Something dangerous enough to get a PI killed.
"What did you walk into, bro?" The words came out as a whisper to the empty room.
His phone buzzed against the table.
Price's name lit up the screen.
Gabe grabbed the phone. "Talk to me."
"Got a potential lead. Woman up in the woods claims she saw a man matching Ruiz's description three weeks ago. Says she has information." Price's tone carried that careful neutrality that meant he wasn't sure how solid the tip was.
"Address?"
Price rattled off directions to a cottage a good way North up Highway 101, then into the forest on a logging road. Remote. Isolated. Exactly the kind of place someone conducting surveillance might use as a base.
Or the kind of place someone might lure a federal agent into an ambush.
Gabe grabbed his keys. "I'm heading there now."
"Watch yourself."
"Copy that."
The line went dead.
Gabe checked his Glock, verified the spare magazine in his jacket pocket, and headed out.
The drive started normal enough. Highway 101 curved along the coast, then turned inland through dense forest. Douglas fir pressed close on both sides. The sky was darkening earlier than it should, heavy clouds rolling in from the ocean.
He turned onto the logging road and immediately went on alert.
Narrow. Rutted. Trees so thick they formed a canopy that blocked most of the remaining light. The kind of road where you couldn't see what was waiting around the next curve.
His hand drifted to rest near his weapon.
Fog crept between the tree trunks like something alive. Searching. Patient. The SUV's headlights barely cut through it.
Gabe's pulse kicked up a notch.
This was the kind of place Ruiz's killers would choose. Remote. No witnesses. Easy to stage an accident or make a body disappear.
He checked his rearview mirror. Nothing but fog and shadows.
The road curved sharply. His headlights swept across a small cottage set back in the trees. Lights on inside. Smoke rising from the chimney. A sedan parked out front with a "Coexist" bumper sticker and another one that said, "I brake for warblers."
Gabe's instincts prickled anyway.
He parked twenty yards back and approached on foot. His hand stayed near his Glock. His eyes tracked the windows. The tree line. The shadows that could hide a dozen threats.
Movement inside the cottage. Someone passing by a window.
He positioned himself beside the front door. Knocked hard. "FBI. Open up."
The door swung wide.
An elderly woman stood there in oversized binoculars hanging around her neck, a floral sweater that looked hand-knitted, and fuzzy slippers shaped like ducks. She held a mug that said "I LIKE BIRDS. AND MAYBE 3 PEOPLE."
She gasped. "Are you the FBI man? Reagan down at the diner told Doreen at the hair salon that the new agent was a looker."
Gabe's body deflated half an inch.
Not an ambush. At least, not the deadly kind.
"Ma'am." He pulled out his credentials anyway. "I'm Agent Sawyer. You called about seeing someone matching a victim's description?"
"Oh yes, come in, come in." She waved him inside with enough enthusiasm to slosh tea onto her duck slippers. "I saw a very suspicious man three weeks ago. Very suspicious indeed."
The cottage smelled like cookies and lavender. Bird photos covered every available wall space. A massive pair of binoculars sat on the coffee table next to what looked like a field guide with about fifty bookmarks sticking out.
"Tell me about this man." Gabe pulled out his notebook.
"Well." Mrs. Brewster settled into an armchair and gestured for him to sit. He remained standing. "He was walking the old logging trail you drove in on. Very furtive. Looking around like he didn't want to be seen."
"Can you describe him?"
"Dark hair. Medium build. Wearing one of those expensive outdoor jackets." She paused. "Actually, now that I think about it, his name was Gary. He told me when I asked what he was doing."
Gabe's pen stopped moving. "He told you his name."
"Oh yes. Very polite. He was looking for the rare coastal woodpecker. I told him he was in the wrong habitat entirely, but tourists never listen." She stood abruptly. "Would you like a cookie? I made snickerdoodles this morning."
"No thank you, ma'am."
"Are you sure? They're very good. My granddaughter loves them. She's single, by the way. Lovely girl. Works in Portland. About your age."
Gabe's jaw tightened. "Mrs. Brewster, the man you saw. Did he do anything suspicious besides walking on the trail?"
"Well, he had very nice binoculars. Swarovski, I think. Top of the line." She moved to a photo album on the bookshelf. "Let me show you the puffins I saw last week. Twenty-six different shots. Each one captures a unique behavioral moment."
Gabe bit down on a groan. Price was going to owe him. Big time.
He endured fifteen minutes of puffin photos, politely declined three offers of cookies, sidestepped two attempts to discuss her granddaughter's availability, and finally escaped with a promise to "be careful out there."
Mrs. Brewster waved from the doorway as he drove away. "Come back anytime."
The fog had thickened by the time he reached the highway. Gabe's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
Another dead end while David was out there somewhere, running out of time.
He circled back to Cara Sweet. She lied and hid evidence.
Breaking into Ruiz's motel room had come easier to her than to him.
Every movement carried the practiced ease of someone used to making quick escapes.
Everything about her screamed law enforcement or intelligence background.
But she was hiding in a small-town baking bread.
Why?
The sun was heading toward the horizon by the time he reached Haven Cove. The town looked peaceful in the golden light. Boats bobbing in the marina. Shops closing for the evening. Streetlights flickering on one by one.
Gabe drove past the bakery.
Locked up tight.
He continued to the alley behind it where Cara's apartment sat above the shop. One light visible in an upstairs window. Her well-used Subaru parked below.
He slowed.
Movement on the stairs.
Cara came down bundled in a dark jacket, hair down around her shoulders instead of pulled back in her usual bun. She looked different. Softer. The kind of pretty that caught him off guard for half a second before his brain caught up.
Reagan from the diner appeared beside her, linking arms with easy familiarity. They were both laughing. Not much, but enough to suggest plans. Friendship. Normal Saturday evening activities.
She looked relaxed. Happy even.
Not scared. Not hiding. Not running.
They climbed into Reagan's compact SUV and pulled out of the alley.
Gabe sat in his vehicle and watched them disappear down Main Street.
She'd stolen evidence from a crime scene last night. Been confronted by a federal agent this afternoon. And now she was going out with friends like nothing had happened.
Either she was innocent and handling the stress remarkably well, or she was the best actress he'd ever met.
His gut said option two.
He drove back to his rental cabin. Inside, the silence felt heavier than it should. Empty rooms. Sterile furniture. The kind of temporary housing that reminded him he didn't belong here.
Gabe sat on the edge of the bed and opened Ruiz's notebook again.
The pages were worn from being handled. Coffee stains on one corner. David's looping handwriting visible on page twelve where he'd added a note in the margin: "If I'm right about this, it will change everything."
Gabe's throat tightened.
Three weeks. No contact. No sightings. Just a trail of questions that led to a dead PI and a baker who moved like a trained operative.
He closed the notebook carefully and set it on the nightstand.
Lord, I don't know what I'm doing here. But help me find him. Please. Before it's too late.
The prayer felt inadequate. Desperate.
It was all he had.
Tomorrow, he'd push harder. Dig deeper. Follow every lead in Ruiz's notes until something broke open.
Cara Sweet was going to tell him everything.
"No more lies," he said to the empty room. "Tomorrow, you're going to trust me. Whether you want to or not."
He lay back on the bed, still fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep felt impossible.
But he'd learned a long time ago how to function on adrenaline and determination.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.