Chapter 2
Cara made it through the morning rush on autopilot.
She smiled at customers. Made change. Boxed pastries. Pretended her world wasn't imploding with every tick of the clock on the wall.
Blaire's card burned in her pocket Guilt made tangible.
By ten o'clock, the bakery had finally quieted. Just a few stragglers finishing coffee, checking their phones, living their completely normal lives while Cara's world crumbled.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her stomach dropped.
WOW! the lighting in your bakery is PERFECT for content! Just posted the pics—tagged you! Hope that's okay! Also we should totally chat soon. Like, really soon. Before I have to start asking around town about Margaret's mysterious long-lost grandniece. –B
The few remaining customers were absorbed in their own worlds. Nobody noticed her.
Cara clamped down on the surge of bile in her throat.
Another text: Noon. Your back office? Let's chat properly. Come alone. Or I'll just pop over to the police station and ask Chief Sawyer some questions. He seems SO friendly.
Cara stared at the phone, that specific terror of being hunted by someone who understood exactly how to hurt you.
She needed help. Needed someone. But the team was scattered—Reagan dealing with the historical society, Wade out on his fishing trawler, Tom working from home. And she couldn't tell them anyway. Couldn't expose herself, or Dom Adler, Margaret’s real nephew, everything.
Eleven forty-five.
She flipped the sign to "Back in 15 minutes" and fled to the back office.
The office was really a converted storage closet with a desk, filing cabinet, and a window that overlooked the alley.
She paced the small space, breathing too fast.
Think. She needed to think.
If Blaire really had concerns, why the direct threats? Why not just go to the police?
Because Blaire wanted something.
This wasn't about justice. This was about leverage.
Which meant it was a con.
And Cara knew cons. Had run them. Had been good at them.
But this Blaire—with her Instagram aesthetic and her bright, empty smile—was different. Meaner. Hungrier. The kind of con artist who'd grown up with technology, who understood that the best disguise in the modern world was looking exactly like everyone else's carefully curated online persona.
Cara had sold fake art to rich people who should've known better.
Blaire probably crowdfunded her cons and made them look like empowerment.
Ten minutes later, footsteps echoed in the alley. Light, confident. The click of expensive shoes.
Blaire appeared in the doorway like she belonged there, phone already up and recording.
"This office is so cool." She panned the phone around. "Vintage small business vibes. Love the recipe books—are those Margaret's? That's so special."
She lowered the phone, and the mask dropped.
The bright smile remained, but her eyes were flat. Calculating. Empty of anything resembling warmth.
"So." Blaire closed the door, leaned against it. Still looked like she was about to film a morning routine TikTok. Still moved like a predator. "Let's skip the performative stuff. You're not Margaret Sweet's grandniece. The paperwork's good—I'll give you credit—but not perfect."
Cara kept her face blank. "Sounds like you've done your homework."
"Always do. It's literally my job." Blaire examined her nails—perfect gel manicure, pale pink. "Well, one of my jobs. Content creator pays the bills. Identity investigation pays for the fun stuff."
"What do you want?"
"Direct. I appreciate that." Blaire's smile widened. "Here's the thing. I don't actually care who you are or why you're hiding. Not my business. But I do care about getting paid for my work."
"Someone hired you."
"Someone's always hiring me. People want to find other people. Verify identities. Dig up dirt. I'm good at it." She shrugged, utterly casual. "This job was easy. Red flags all over your inheritance. Took me like three days to confirm Margaret Sweet's will was hinky."
Dom. She was fishing for Dom.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please." Blaire rolled her eyes. "I've been doing this since I was nineteen. You're good—the bakery cover is smart, the small-town integration is excellent—but you're not that good. Someone set you up here. Someone with serious skills."
She pushed off the door, circled the small office. "That's the interesting part. Who goes to this much trouble? Forged documents, fake inheritance, complete identity package. That's not amateur hour. That's professional-grade witness protection level."
She stopped at the window, looked out at the alley. Still holding her phone, probably still recording. "So here's my offer. Fifty thousand dollars. Two weeks. Cash. I disappear, you keep playing small-town baker, everyone's happy."
Cara's laugh was bitter. "I run a bakery. You think I have fifty thousand in cash?"
"I think whoever set you up here gave you resources. Emergency funds. Something." Blaire turned back, and for the first time, something almost genuine crossed her face. Respect, maybe. Or recognition. "I think you're probably smarter than you're pretending to be. I think you can figure it out."
"And if I can't?"
Blaire's smile turned sharp. "Then I start posting my research. Very public, very detailed. 'The Mystery of Margaret Sweet's Long-Lost Heir.' My followers eat up mystery content. Gets like, crazy engagement."
She pulled up her phone, showed Cara her Instagram. Fifty-seven thousand followers. Posts of her in various cities, always bright and bubbly, always with that influencer aesthetic. But the captions...
Found her! Three-year search complete. DM for details.
Sometimes people don't want to be found. But I'm really good at my job.
New case! Missing person, fake identity, or something else? Follow along!
Every post was a threat disguised as content. Every investigation was entertainment.
"See?" Blaire pocketed her phone. "I don't need the police. I just need to ask the right questions to the right audience. Someone will recognize you eventually. Someone always does."
"Or," she continued, voice brightening back to influencer mode, "you pay me, I delete my research, and we never speak again. Super easy. Very clean."
She headed for the door, paused with her hand on the knob. "Oh, and Cara? Or whatever your real name is? Don't try to run. I'll know."
"Two weeks." Blaire's smile was bright and empty. "Same time, same place. Bring cash. Make good choices!" She left, footsteps fading down the alley, probably already composing her next Instagram story.
Cara sat in the sudden silence, phone clutched in her shaking hands.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Two weeks.
Or lose everything to someone who'd turn her destruction into content.
She needed to get back out front. The bakery had been closed for twenty minutes. Someone might have noticed.
Cara stood on shaking legs and returned to find two customers waiting impatiently at the door.
"Sorry!" She unlocked it, forcing brightness. "Supply delivery ran long."
Another lie. They came so easily now.
The afternoon dragged. Every customer felt like a threat. Every phone buzz made her jump. Every glance out the window showed her Blaire's perfect smile, that empty threat disguised as friendship.
At three-thirty, Piper burst through the door with her usual energy, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Sorry I'm late. Chemistry lab ran over and Mr. Patterson would NOT stop talking about ionic bonds." She set down her pack and grabbed an apron before glancing up at Cara. "Whoa. You look terrible. Are you okay?"
"Long day. Busy."
"I can see that." Piper surveyed the half-empty display cases, the dishes piled in the sink. "You've been slammed, haven't you? Why didn't you text me? I could've come in during lunch."
Because Cara had been too busy spiraling about blackmail and fugitive status and the complete destruction of her carefully constructed life.
"I managed."
"Barely." Piper started loading the dishwasher. "Seriously, Cara. You need to hire more help. Or at least let me work more hours. I can do mornings before school sometimes."
"You need to focus on your classes."
"I'm getting straight A's and you know it."
"I'm fine."
"That's what everyone says right before they completely fall apart." Piper finished loading dishes, turned to face her. "Look, I know we have the whole 'don't ask about pasts' thing. But if something's wrong—"
"I'm fine," Cara repeated, sharper than intended.
Piper's expression shuttered. "Okay. Got it. None of my business."
Guilt twisted Cara's stomach. "Piper, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's cool." But her tone said it wasn't. "I'll just... clean tables."
She grabbed a rag and headed for the dining area, movements stiff.
Cara sagged against the counter. She was pushing everyone away. Even Gabe.
All to protect a secret that was going to destroy her anyway.
Her phone buzzed.
Not Blaire this time. The team chat.
Reagan: Meeting tonight? 7pm? We need to talk about structure.
Tom: Works for me.
Wade: I'll be there.
Piper: Mais oui. (please note perfect French. And like, who even needs French? Seriously? Talking to Mr. Nakamura here, if it’s not already obs.)
Reagan: Cara?
Cara stared at the messages. She should respond. Should be part of the team. Should pretend everything was normal.
But sitting in the bakery’s repurposed basement, lying to their faces while they tried to plan a future she might not be part of...
She couldn't do it.
Can't tonight. Bakery stuff. Sorry.
The response was immediate.
Reagan: Cara. Come on.
Wade: What bakery stuff?
Piper looked up from wiping tables, phone in hand, expression concerned.
Cara typed fast: Just tired. Need to catch up on paperwork. We'll talk soon.
She put her phone on silent before anyone could respond.
Piper returned to cleaning tables, and Cara stood behind the counter, watching the afternoon fade to evening.
Fifty thousand dollars. It might as well have been fifty million.