Chapter 3
Cara's apartment felt too small at nine PM.
She'd skipped the team meeting, texting her excuses, choosing isolation over facing them.
Now she sat at her tiny kitchen table with Margaret Sweet's inheritance paperwork spread before her, studying documents she'd memorized six months ago.
Looking for cracks. For weaknesses. For the thing Blaire Mitchell had found that would unravel everything.
The lawyer's signature looked legitimate. The notary stamp was real—Dom had connections, had made sure of that. The will itself was expertly forged, down to Margaret's spidery handwriting and her habit of crossing her sevens European-style.
Dom had thought of everything.
Except, apparently, a thirty-something identity hunter with an Instagram following and no conscience. Who had put the woman on Margaret Sweet’s case?
Her phone sat beside the paperwork. Seven missed calls from Reagan. Three texts from Wade. Two from Tom.
She couldn’t answer any of them.
Because answering meant lying more, and she was so tired of lying.
Her phone buzzed again.
Hope you're having a good evening! Mine's been super productive. Did some great research today. Found SO many interesting connections. Can't wait to share! Hope you're making progress on our little arrangement! –B
Cara threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and bounced onto the couch, the screen thankfully intact.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, breathing hard.
She had maybe three thousand in savings. The bakery itself generated decent revenue, but not fifty-thousand-in-two-weeks decent.
She could ask the team for help.
The thought made her chest ache.
They were all survivors, scraping by in Haven Cove because it was safe and quiet and let them disappear.
They'd help if she asked—would probably pool every dollar they had.
But asking meant bringing them into it. Making them accessories if Blaire discovered the full truth. If this went sideways—if Blaire dug deeper, if law enforcement got involved, if everything blew up—the team would be caught in the blast radius.
Reagan was in witness protection. Cara was certain of it. Whatever she was hiding from, whoever wanted her dead, drawing federal attention to Haven Cove could expose her.
Tom had mentioned that people with his background "don't get to retire gracefully." Bringing scrutiny to the team could put him and Piper at risk.
Wade's past was the vaguest of all, but the way he'd said "different reasons for leaving" made it clear he couldn't afford attention either.
They'd all agreed not to dig into each other's pasts for a reason. They all had secrets worth protecting.
Asking for help with Blaire meant risking all of them.
Which left one option.
The thing she'd sworn she'd never do again.
Cara retrieved her phone, opened her laptop, and started searching classified ads. She needed estate sales or private collections, looking for high-value items being sold by people who didn't quite know what they had.
Looking for a mark.
Her hands stilled on the keyboard.
This was who she'd been. Who she'd promised the Lord she wouldn't be anymore. The person who'd stood in that prison chapel and asked for forgiveness, for a chance to be someone better.
Someone honest.
But that person—the honest version of Cara Sweet—only existed because of lies.
Lord, I don't know what to do here. I'm trapped. If I con someone to get the money, I'm back to being Carly. If I don't, Blaire exposes me and destroys everything. There's no good choice.
The prayer felt hollow. Desperate.
Like bargaining with the only one who might still believe in her.
A knock at her door made her jump.
She closed the laptop, checked the peephole.
Reagan.
Of course.
Cara considered not answering. Pretending she wasn't home. Hiding like she'd been hiding from everything else.
Another knock. Firmer.
"Cara, I know you're in there. Your lights are on and I can hear you moving around. Open up."
Cara sighed and opened the door.
Reagan stood on the tiny landing, a paper bag in one hand and a determined look on her face. The smell hit Cara before the words did—butter-grilled bread, melted cheese, and the salty promise of fresh-cut fries.
Her stomach growled. Traitor.
"I brought reinforcements." Reagan held up the bag. "We need to talk."
"It's late."
"It's nine-thirty. Piper said you looked wrecked today." Reagan pushed past her into the apartment, and another wave of that heavenly aroma followed.
Cara tried to remember when she'd last eaten something that wasn't a broken croissant or a spoonful of frosting straight from the bowl. Her stomach growled again, louder this time.
Reagan set the bag on the kitchen table and started unpacking containers. "So we're talking. Now."
Cara closed the door, resigned. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Really?" Reagan gestured at the paperwork spread across the table. "Because that looks like someone having a crisis."
Cara quickly gathered the inheritance documents, shoved them in a drawer. "Just bakery stuff."
"Stop." Reagan's voice was sharp. "Just stop. We skipped the meeting tonight because you weren't there. The whole point of the team is being a team, and you're shutting us out."
"I told you. I have bakery—"
"Bakery nothing." Reagan crossed her arms. "I've been where you are.
Drowning and pretending you're fine. Lying to the people who care about you because you think you're protecting them.
" Her expression softened. "But Cara, you're not protecting anyone. Whatever’s going on, you're just making it worse. "
"You don't understand."
"Then help me understand." Reagan sat at the table, unwrapped the sandwich and pushed it toward the empty chair along with a napkin. "I'm not leaving until you talk to me. Even if it takes all night."
She nudged the fries closer. “Eat.”
Cara remained standing, arms wrapped around herself. "We have rules. Don't dig into each other's pasts. Don't investigate each other."
"I'm not investigating. I'm asking my friend what's wrong." Reagan's tone gentled. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." Reagan met her eyes. "Because I'm not going to dig if you don't want me to. But I can't watch you fall apart without at least trying to help."
The kindness was almost worse than suspicion would've been.
Cara sat, pulling the sandwich toward her, though her stomach was in knots. She picked at the crust, tearing off small chunks to have something to do with her hands.
"What if..." She stopped. Started again. "What if the thing that's wrong can't be fixed? What if telling you makes it worse?"
"Then at least you're not carrying it alone."
"What if carrying it alone is the only way to protect everyone?"
Reagan was quiet for a moment. "When my ex went dirty, when I found out he was taking cartel money, I had that same thought. If I told anyone, it would destroy him. Destroy us. Destroy everything we'd built."
"What did you do?"
"I told anyway. Turned him in. Lost everything." Reagan's smile was sad. "But here's what I learned. Secrets that big don't stay buried. They always come out. And when they do, the explosion is worse than if you'd just dealt with it from the start."
"Not always."
"Usually." Reagan leaned forward. "Cara, whatever this is—whoever's threatening you, whatever they want—we can help. That's what the team is for."
"Not with this."
"Why not?"
Because you'd all be accessories. Because you'd lose everything helping me. Because I'm not worth that.
"Because it's complicated."
"We do complicated. That's literally what we do." Reagan leaned forward. "You trusted us to help you save David. Trust us now."
"This is different."
"How?"
"Because David was innocent. This..." Cara stopped. "This is about me. My past. Things I did before Haven Cove."
"We all have things we did before Haven Cove." Reagan's voice was gentle. "That's why we're here. That's why we don't ask questions."
"Exactly. We don't ask questions. We don't dig. We protect each other by not knowing." Cara met her eyes. "If I tell you about this, if I bring you into it, you lose that protection."
Reagan was quiet for a moment. "Is someone threatening you?"
Cara nodded.
"Threatening to expose something about your past?"
Another nod.
"Something that would put you in danger?"
"Yes," Cara said finally. Legal danger and danger-danger. Whoever had that witness, killed in a New York City jail cell would probably still want her dead.
"Okay." Reagan's expression hardened. "Then we handle it. We find leverage and we shut this down."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is." Reagan's smile was grim. "You don't have to tell me all your secrets. But you need to tell me enough to help. Can you do that?"
Could she? Could she ask for help without revealing she was exactly what the blackmailer claimed—a fraud living under a stolen identity?
The words stuck in her throat. Half a year of lies, t of careful distance, of making sure no one got close enough to ask the questions she couldn't answer.
But Reagan was already close. They all were. And the alternative was drowning alone.
"The inheritance," Cara said slowly. "Margaret Sweet's will. The one that left me the bakery."
Reagan waited, her expression patient. Open.
"It's not... I wasn't..." Cara pressed her palms flat against the table, steadying herself. "Margaret Sweet wasn't my great aunt. I never even met her."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Reagan's face remained carefully neutral, but Cara could see her processing—that sharp mind clicking through implications, connections, questions.
"Did you steal the business?" Reagan's voice was quiet. Not accusing. Just... asking.
"No." The word came out fierce, immediate. "No. Definitely not. But it's..." Cara exhaled. "Complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"I can't explain." Cara met Reagan's eyes, pleading for understanding she didn't deserve. "Maybe ever. I just—I need you to trust that I didn't hurt anyone to get here. I didn't steal from anyone."
Reagan was quiet for a long moment. "But the paperwork is fake."
"Yes."
"And someone found out."
"A woman showed up this morning. A professional... finder, I guess you'd call her." Cara's voice hardened. "She's threatening to expose everything unless I pay her fifty thousand dollars in two weeks."
Reagan's expression didn't change. "And if she follows through?"
"I lose everything. The bakery. Haven Cove." You. The life I've built. And I go back to prison, where I'll probably die.
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Finally, Reagan spoke. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. Tomorrow, we call an emergency team meeting. You don't have to tell us everything. Just the blackmail part."
"They'll ask questions."
"Probably. But you don't have to answer all of them. We agreed—no digging into pasts." Reagan's expression was firm. "But we also agreed to help each other. And this is you asking for help. Right?"
Was it?
Could she really do this? Ask for help while still hiding the truth?
"I don't know if I can."
"You can." Reagan stood. "Seven PM tomorrow. Basement. We'll figure this out together, and we’ll take this woman down."
"What if figuring it out means discovering things about me you don't want to know?"
"Then we'll deal with that when it happens." Reagan headed for the door, paused. "Cara, whatever you did before Haven Cove, whoever you were—you're part of this team now. You're family. We don't abandon family."
She left before Cara could respond.
Cara sat alone in her apartment, food growing cold, Reagan's words echoing.
We don't abandon family.
But what if the family didn't know what they were protecting? What if the truth would make them wish they'd never met her?
And Gabe.
What about Gabe?
She thought about the way he'd looked at her that morning in the bakery. The way he always found excuses to stop by for coffee, like her bakery was part of his patrol route even though it wasn't.
The way he'd said, "people I care about" and then caught himself, like he'd revealed too much.
She was falling for him. Had been falling for him since they met, when she'd watched him put aside his own future if it meant saving his brother.
A good man. An honest man. A man who'd spent his career hunting people who broke the law.
And she was exactly the kind of person he'd spent his career chasing.
Her phone sat silent on the table.
She could text Dom. Should text Dom. He'd told her to reach out if she was ever in trouble.
But texting her old handler meant putting him at risk. If Blaire was watching her communications, if she'd somehow figured out how to trace Cara's contacts, if anything went wrong...
Dom had three daughters. A career. A life he'd risked everything to protect when he'd helped her.
He'd been meticulous. Had scrubbed every connection between himself and Margaret Sweet. Had made sure that even if someone investigated the inheritance, they'd hit a wall. No nephew. No family connection. Nothing that led back to him.
Blaire had found the fake will. Had figured out Cara wasn't Margaret's heir.
But she hadn't found Dom. Which meant his precautions had worked.
And Cara wasn't going to be the one to expose him.
She set down her phone.
Whatever happened with Blaire, she'd handle it alone. Dom had already sacrificed enough.