Chapter 5
Gabe had been Police Chief of Haven Cove for exactly three weeks, and he was beginning to suspect the job description had been intentionally misleading.
The mulch turned out to be for his garden.
Gabe stabbed his burger, remembering the last case he'd worked in Philadelphia.
A mole inside the Bureau selling classified intel to foreign agents.
Three months of surveillance, dead drops, encrypted communications.
He'd identified the leak, built the case, watched them lead the agent out in handcuffs.
High stakes. Clear mission. Actual criminals.
Now he investigated mulch.
The truth was, he'd wanted this. After David's kidnapping, after realizing how close he'd come to losing his brother, Gabe had re-evaluated everything.
The FBI had been his life for fifteen years.
But what kind of life was it when you were too busy chasing traitors to notice your own brother was in danger?
As his friend Tyler Price had said, "It's an interim position. Slip in, catch your breath, and decide what life after the Bureau means."
Smaller pond. Quieter life. Time to actually be present for the people he cared about.
People like Cara.
He took a long sip of coffee, trying not to think about the way she'd looked at him yesterday morning. That mix of want and fear in her eyes. The careful distance she maintained despite the obvious attraction between them.
She was hiding something. Whatever it was, she deserved a chance to—
"Chief Sawyer, right?"
A woman materialized beside his booth, all bright smiles and designer athleisure. Early thirties, perfect highlights, phone already in her hand like it was a natural extension of her arm.
"Mind if I sit?" She didn't wait for an answer, sliding into the opposite seat. "I'm Blaire Mitchell. I was hoping to run into you."
Gabe's cop instincts pinged. Too friendly. Too eager.
He lowered his burger. "Can I help you with something, Ms. Mitchell?"
"It's Blaire." She set her phone on the table, screen-down but positioned like she could grab it quickly. "I'm actually in town visiting an old friend and thought I should introduce myself to the new police chief. You know, just to be neighborly."
"That's thoughtful."
"I try." Blaire leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Actually, I'm a little worried about my friend. Cara Sweet? She owns the bakery on Main Street."
The mention of Cara's name sent alarm bells ringing.
"What about her?"
"Well, we go way back—college friends—and I was so excited when I found out she'd inherited her great-aunt's bakery. Such a sweet story." Blaire's smile dimmed slightly. "But when I saw her yesterday, she seemed... off. Stressed. Anxious. Not like herself at all."
Gabe concentrated on keeping his face blank, but his mind raced. Something about this woman felt off in a big way. "Running a bakery is hard work."
"Oh, I know. I just..." Blaire bit her lip, playing concerned friend perfectly. "Cara's never been great with the business side of things. She's more creative, you know? I'm worried she might be in over her head. Financially, I mean."
"If she's having business problems, there are resources—"
"I know, I know. I offered to help. To look over her books, maybe connect her with a financial advisor I know." Blaire glanced out the window toward Main Street. "But she seemed almost... scared? Like she didn't want me to look too closely at anything."
The statement landed carefully. Not quite an accusation. Just concern tinged with confusion.
"Maybe she's just proud," Gabe said. "Some people don't like accepting help."
"That's true. Cara's always been independent." Blaire studied him with those sharp eyes. "She talks about you, actually. The protective police chief. Former FBI, right? Counterintelligence?"
The shift felt calculated. Gathering information.
"Close enough."
"Wow. That's impressive. Big change from FBI to small-town police work." She tilted her head. "What made you leave?"
"Personal reasons."
"Of course. Sorry, I don't mean to pry."
A serious lie.
Blaire's smile returned, bright and empty. "I just... you seem close to Cara. I thought maybe you'd noticed something. If she's struggling, if there's anything I should be worried about..."
Gabe met her eyes. "If Cara needs help, she knows where to find me."
"That's good. That's really good." The woman stood, smoothing her perfect outfit.
"Well, I should let you finish your lunch.
I'm staying in town for a bit, so I'm sure we'll run into each other again.
" She paused. "Oh, and Chief? If you do notice anything concerning about Cara—anything at all—please let me know.
I'd hate for her to be in trouble and too proud to ask for help. "
She left before he could respond, footsteps clicking away.
Gabe sat in the sudden silence, every instinct screaming that something was very wrong with that conversation.
Twenty minutes later, he was back at the station, pulling up everything he could find on Blaire Mitchell.
Her Instagram loaded. Perfectly curated feed. Beach photos with inspirational quotes. Coffee shop aesthetics. Outfit posts with affiliate links. And happy, crying people, arm in arm. So. Many. People.
And the tagline: Reuniting families. Finding answers. DM for services.
Gabe clicked through to her website. Professional layout. Testimonials. Services offered.
Blaire Mitchell wasn't a lifestyle blogger.
She was a skip tracer. Someone who found people who didn't want to be found, all documented on Instagram with bright smiles and upbeat music.
Post after post of Blaire "reuniting" families. But read between the lines, check the patterns...
How many of those people actually wanted to be found?
One comment from eight months ago: Worth every penny. You're amazing at this.
This wasn't charity. This was business.
And Blaire Mitchell was circling Cara.
Gabe grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
Sugar & Salt was moderately busy when he arrived. Cara stood behind the counter, and even from across the room, he could see the exhaustion in her face.
She looked up when the bell chimed. Something flickered across her expression when she saw him—relief and fear in equal measure.
"Hey." He approached the counter. "You got a minute?"
She glanced at the customers. Walls slamming into place. "What's up?"
"Could we talk in your office?"
Her expression shuttered completely. "Piper, can you handle the front?"
The teen looked between the two of them, eyebrows raised, and nodded.
Cara led him to the back office, closed the door then stood behind her desk like she needed the barrier between them.
"What's going on?"
Gabe pulled out his phone, showed her Blaire's Instagram. "You know this woman? Blaire Mitchell?"
Cara's face went pale. "Why?"
"She came to see me at lunch. Said she was your old college friend. That she's worried about you." He watched her carefully. "Claimed you seemed stressed. In over your head with the bakery. Asked me to let her know if I notice anything 'concerning' about you."
Cara's hand gripped the edge of her desk. "She talked to you about me?"
"She did. And something about the whole conversation felt wrong, so I looked her up." He gestured to the phone. "She's not a lifestyle blogger, Cara. She's a professional skip tracer. She finds people who don't want to be found—and charges a lot of money for it."
Cara said nothing. But her knuckles had gone white.
"You're not old college friends, are you?"
"No."
"So why is a professional investigator pretending to be your friend and asking the police chief questions about you?"
Cara looked away. "I can't—I don't—"
"Here's what I can't figure out." Gabe leaned against the doorframe, keeping his voice calm. Thinking out loud. "She didn't have to talk to me. If she's investigating you, approaching the local cops is risky. I could start asking questions. I could warn you. I could make her job harder."
Cara's eyes met his, wary. "So why did she?"
"That's what I've been asking myself." He paused. "I think she wanted me to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"That she talked to me. That she's circling you.
That she can get to the police chief any time she wants.
" Gabe's jaw tightened. "She made sure to mention you 'talk about me.
' Made sure I knew you two were 'close.' She's sending you a message, Cara.
She wants you to know that if you go to the cops, she's already there, planting seeds. "
Cara's face had gone from pale to ashen. "She's cutting off my options."
"That's how I read it." Gabe straightened. "She wants you scared. Isolated. Convinced that even the police chief is already suspicious of you because of whatever story she's spinning."
"Are you?" The question came out barely a whisper. "Suspicious of me?"
"I'm suspicious of her." He held Cara's gaze. "I'm not investigating you, Cara. I haven't dug into your background. I haven't run searches or pulled records. That's not who I want to be with you."
Her eyes glistened.
"But this woman is dangerous." His voice hardened. "I don't like being played. And I really don't like watching someone I care about get hunted."
"What are you going to do?"
"That depends on you." He moved closer, keeping his hands visible, non-threatening. "I want to help. If you'll let me."
"I can't tell you what this is about." She finally looked at him, tears threatening to spill. "Because if I do, you'll have to choose between helping me and doing your job. And I already know which one you'll choose."
"Cara—"
"Please. Just trust me. I'm handling it. But I need you to stay out of it."
Gabe stared at her, frustration warring with concern. "If Blaire contacts you again, if she threatens you—"
"I'll call you."
She was lying.
He headed for the door, paused. "For what it's worth?
I don't know what she thinks she has on you.
I don't know what you're running from. But I know who you are now.
The woman who took in a teenager who needed a job.
Who brought soup to Mrs. Patterson when she was sick.
The woman who jumped into the ocean without a thought to save my brother.
" He stopped. "That's the Cara I know. You’re a good person. And I wish you'd let me help."
He left before she could respond.
Outside, he stepped into the afternoon sun and stopped.
Blaire Mitchell leaned against a car across the street, phone up, pointed directly at the bakery. At him.
She lowered it when she saw him watching, gave that bright, empty smile. Waved.
Then she got in her car and drove away.
Gabe stood on Main Street, jaw clenched.
Blaire hadn't just been establishing her cover story. She'd been making sure Cara knew she was talking to the police chief. Documenting it. Probably had photos of him walking into the bakery, walking out looking frustrated.
More ammunition. More pressure.
She thought she was untouchable because she had an Instagram following and a cute smile.
She was about to learn otherwise.
When he got back to the station, he walked straight past Maggie’s desk before the poor woman could even start in on all the un-returned calls. He sat at his desk, pulled up his computer, and started a new search.
Blaire Mitchell. Employment history. Client list. Previous cases. Financial records. Everything.
If she was hunting Cara, she had vulnerabilities. Everyone did.
He'd taken down espionage rings, protected assets, neutralized threats.
Cara might not want his help.
But she was going to get it anyway.