Chapter 4
By two AM, Cara had given up on trying to sleep. Sat at her kitchen table instead, staring at Blaire's Instagram, studying the woman who held Cara’s life in her perfectly manicured hands.
Every post was a performance. Every caption carefully crafted. Every photo filtered and angled for maximum engagement.
Until Cara dug deeper into the tagged photos, the comments, the people who followed her...
There. Buried in the replies to a post from months ago. Someone thanking Blaire for "finding my sister after the police gave up." Another comment: "Worth every penny. You're amazing at this."
Cara clicked through to Blaire's highlights. One was labeled "Success Stories" with a sparkling emoji.
Story after story of Blaire finding people. Tracking down birth parents. Locating deadbeat dads. Uncovering fake identities. All presented with bright smiles and upbeat music, like she was helping reunite families rather than hunting humans for profit.
Each story ended the same way: "DM for services! "
Blaire Mitchell wasn't just a content creator who did identity investigations on the side.
She was an identity investigator who used content creation as cover. As advertising. As a way to crowdsource her hunts.
Cara's stomach turned.
She clicked through more of Blaire's posts. Further back. Two years ago.
There. A caption that made Cara's blood run cold.
Sometimes people deserve to be found. Sometimes they're running from consequences they earned. I don't judge—I just locate. Justice takes many forms.
The comments were supportive. Enthusiastic. People loved Blaire's work.
Nobody seemed to care that she was essentially a bounty hunter with better branding.
Cara sat back, rubbing her eyes. Think. She needed to think like she used to. Like Carly Reid, who'd sold a fake Monet for 1.2 million and convinced a senator's wife it was real.
Blaire wanted money. Fifty thousand, specifically. Not a random number—carefully chosen. Enough to be painful but potentially achievable. Enough to suggest Blaire had researched Cara's probable resources.
Cara closed the laptop with trembling fingers.
There was no winning. And no way to make this right with Gabe.
Tomorrow, he’d probably stop by the bakery for his morning coffee, giving her that smile that made her chest ache. And then he’d ask how she was doing with that gentle concern that made her want to tell him everything.
And she'd lie to his face. Again.
She'd built walls around her heart for good reason. But Gabe had somehow slipped past those walls anyway. With his steady presence and his terrible jokes about Harold's chickens and the way he looked at her like she was someone worth protecting.
Like she was someone worth choosing.
Cara grabbed her phone. Her thumb hovered over his name.
She could call him. Could hear his voice. Could pretend, just for a moment, that this could end any way but disaster.
Instead, she set the phone down and went back to researching ways to con fifty thousand dollars from people who deserved it.
Some walls needed to stay up. Even when your heart was breaking.
Her phone buzzed. Another unknown number, but she knew who it was.
Can't sleep? Me neither! Doing research is so energizing. Did you know forging inheritance documents is a FEDERAL crime? Like, serious jail time. That's intense. Anyway, just thinking about consequences and choices. Sweet dreams!
Cara deleted the message and turned off her phone.
A soft knock at her door made her jump.
She checked her phone. Three-thirty AM.
Another knock. Quiet but insistent.
Cara grabbed the kitchen knife—old habits—and approached the door. Checked the peephole.
Wade.
She opened the door, knife still in hand. "It's three in the morning."
"I know." He stood in the hallway, tactical gear swapped for jeans and a hoodie, expression carefully neutral. "Saw your lights on. Figured you weren't sleeping either."
"So you just... came over?"
"Reagan called me after she left. Said you were in trouble." He gestured at the knife. "You planning to use that or can I come in?"
Cara lowered the knife, stepped aside.
Wade entered, surveyed the apartment with the systematic assessment of someone trained to spot threats. Paused at the kitchen table. At her laptop. At the phone showing Blaire's latest threat.
"You're being blackmailed," he said flatly.
Not a question. A statement.
"Reagan told you?"
"She said someone was threatening you. Wanted money." His eyes moved from the phone to her face. "She didn't say who. Or how much. Or why."
"And you decided to show up at three AM because...?"
"Because people being blackmailed do stupid things at this time of night. Like run. Or pay money they don't have to people who won't stop." He crossed his arms. "Which were you planning?"
Both. Neither. She didn't know anymore. "I'm handling it."
"Right. That's why you look like you haven't slept in a week and you're scrolling through some influencer's Instagram at three in the morning with a kitchen knife." His expression didn't change. "Try again."
Cara sank into a chair. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth would be nice."
"We don't do truth. We do 'don't ask about pasts.'"
"This isn't about your past. This is about your present." Wade pulled out a chair, sat across from her. "Someone's threatening you. That makes it team business."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is." He leaned forward. "But here's what I know. You're a good person trying to build a good life. You help people. You're part of this team. And someone's trying to destroy that." His voice was quiet. Dangerous. "That's not acceptable."
"You don't know what she has on me."
"Don't need to. Not my business what you did before Haven Cove." Wade's expression was matter-of-fact. "My business is making sure threats are neutralized. That's what I'm good at."
"She's not a threat you can neutralize with tactics."
"Everyone's vulnerable. Everyone has pressure points." He nodded at her phone. "She's got a zillion followers. Probably thinks that makes her untouchable. What it does is make her sloppy."
"She's not sloppy. She's careful. Professional."
"So am I." Wade pulled out his own phone. "Give me her name. Her accounts. Everything you have. I'll find the pressure points."
"And then what? You threaten her back? That just escalates things."
"Depends on the threat." His expression was calm. Cold. The expression of someone who'd done worse than threaten. "But yeah. If that's what it takes."
"Wade—"
"Cara, I've dealt with blackmailers. Real ones.
The kind who work for cartels and terrorist organizations.
People who make Instagram influencers look like children.
" He met her eyes. "They all have the same weakness.
They rely on fear. On victims staying isolated and scared.
The moment you stop being scared, the moment you have backup, they lose. "
"This isn't like that."
"It's exactly like that." He gestured at her phone.
"She's counting on you being too afraid to ask for help.
Too isolated to fight back. Too desperate to think clearly.
" His voice gentled slightly. "But you're not alone.
You have a team. You have resources. You have people who've handled worse than some thirty-something with a smartphone and an audience. "
The words hit harder than they should.
"If I fight back, she could dig deeper," Cara said quietly. "Find things about me. About the person who helped me. Destroy more than just my life."
Wade was quiet for a moment. "The person who set up your inheritance did good work. Professional grade."
Cara's head snapped up. "How do you—"
"Reagan mentioned the inheritance seemed carefully arranged. Tom noticed the documentation was extremely thorough when he was being nosy." He shrugged. "We look after each other. That means noticing things. But not digging. There's a difference."
Wade leaned back. "Here's what actually happens if your blackmailer goes public with her little mystery. She posts about a questionable inheritance. Maybe gets some engagement. Maybe someone investigates. Takes time. Bureaucracy. Legal processes."
He crossed his arms. "Meanwhile, Tom plays around with her digital footprint.
Makes her look unreliable. Finds her pressure points—and trust me, someone doing identity investigations for cash has done questionable things.
Reagan uses her contacts to flag her for potential investigation.
I make sure she understands that continuing this isn't worth the trouble. "
"You'd do all that?"
"Of course." His expression was firm. "But only if you let us. Only if you stop trying to handle this alone."
"Why?" The word came out broken. "Why would you help me when you don't even know what I did?"
"Because I know who you are now. That's enough." Wade stood. "Meeting's at 1900 hours. Basement. We'll figure this out. Together. Don’t make me come and get you." He headed for the door.
"Wade?"
He paused.
"Thank you."
"Thank me when it's over." He left, footsteps fading down the hallway.
Cara sat in the sudden silence, Wade's words echoing.
I know who you are now. That's enough.
But was it? Would it still be enough when Blaire posted everything? When the team discovered Cara wasn't just someone with a questionable inheritance, but a federal fugitive with seven years of prison time hanging over her head?
She looked at her phone. Silent for once. No texts from Blaire.
Even predators had to sleep sometime.
But for the first time since this nightmare started, Cara didn't feel completely alone.
She had until seven PM to decide.
Ask the team for help and risk exposing everything.
Or face Blaire alone and watch it all burn anyway.