Chapter 6
Cara stood in her office, staring at the closed door Gabe had just walked through.
Whatever you're hiding, whoever you were before Haven Cove...You’re a good person.
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like knives.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to breathe through the panic.
Blaire had talked to Gabe, planting seeds of suspicion while establishing her cover story. And rattling Cara even more.
It was brilliant, actually. Evil, but brilliant.
Now Gabe was investigating Blaire. Which meant Blaire would escalate. Would apply more pressure. Would—
Ringing filled Cara’s ears. She grabbed the edge of the desk, breathing slowly. Steadily. The dizziness ebbed, but not the panic.
Her phone buzzed.
Talked to your police chief today. SO protective of you. It's actually kind of sweet. Hope I didn't worry him too much! Tick tock. –B
Cara's hands shook so hard she nearly dropped the phone.
Blaire was toying with everyone around her. Creating chaos. Documenting everything for her audience.
And there was nothing Cara could do to stop it.
"Cara?" Piper's voice through the door. "You okay? There are customers."
Right. The bakery. Her business. The life she was desperately trying to hold together while everything crumbled around her.
"Coming."
She shoved her phone in her pocket, tried to smooth her expression into something resembling normal, and opened the door.
The afternoon crowd had picked up. Tourists wanting coffee and pastries. Locals stopping by for a break. The usual rush that should have been manageable.
Cara took her place behind the counter. "What can I get for you?"
The older man at the front of the line ordered a latte and a croissant. Simple. She could do this.
Except her hands were shaking.
Cara grabbed a cup, fumbled it, watched it roll across the counter. She caught it before it hit the floor.
"Sorry. Long day." She forced a laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears.
She made the latte. Or tried to. The espresso shot pulled too long—bitter and over-extracted. The milk steamed too hot, scalding instead of silky.
"Here you go." She handed it over, knowing it was wrong but hoping he wouldn't notice.
He took a sip. Made a face. Set it down gently. "Actually, could I just get a regular coffee instead?"
"Of course. I'm so sorry." Heat flooded her face. "It’s on the house."
She poured coffee, nearly spilled it, managed to get the lid on. Grabbed a croissant from the case—realized too late it was yesterday's batch, already going stale.
The man took his order and left quickly, probably planning never to return.
"Cara." Piper appeared at her elbow, voice low. "You're freaking out. What's going on?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're really not." Piper glanced at the growing line of customers. "Did something happen with Chief Hunkalicious? He looked pretty serious when he left."
"It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated lately." Piper studied her face. "Do you need to take a break? I can handle the counter."
Piper gently pushed her toward the kitchen. "Go. Take a minute. I've got this."
Cara retreated to the kitchen, hands pressed against the stainless-steel counter, trying to remember how to breathe.
The bell chimed. More customers. She could hear Piper handling them, doing a far better job than Cara could manage right now.
Fifty thousand dollars she didn't have. For a secret that would destroy everything if it got out. From a woman who wouldn't stop at one payment because blackmail was her entire business model.
Cara was drowning. And she'd been trying to handle it alone because that's what she'd always done—handled things alone, ran cons alone, protected people by keeping them at arm's length.
But Wade had shown up at three AM offering help. Reagan had brought food and refused to leave. Tom had skills that could track Blaire's digital footprint. And Gabe...
Maybe she didn't have to drown alone anymore.
Maybe asking for help wasn't the same as dragging people down with her.
The bell chimed again.
"Cara?" A woman's voice. Unfamiliar. "Is Cara Sweet here?"
She wiped her face, straightened her shoulders, pushed back through the door.
A woman stood at the counter—closer to fifty than forty, with kind eyes and capable hands. She wore jeans and a simple sweater, and she moved with the quiet confidence of someone who'd survived hard things.
"I'm Cara."
"Diane Morrison." The woman extended her hand. "Reagan Byrne sent me? Said you might need some help with the bakery."
Right. Reagan had mentioned something about finding someone. When had that been? Yesterday? This morning? Time was blurring together.
"I appreciate you coming, but I'm not sure—"
"Reagan said you were dealing with some things." Diane's smile was warm. Understanding without being intrusive. "I managed a bakery in Seattle for five years. Busier than this. I'm familiar with the chaos."
"It's not usually this chaotic."
Diane glanced around, taking everything in. "Why don't you show me where things are? We can figure out what you need."
Cara wanted to refuse. She could handle this herself. But Piper was manning the counter alone, customers were waiting, and she could barely remember how to make a latte without her hands shaking. " Thank you. That would be fantastic."
She led Diane through the kitchen, pointing out supplies and equipment. Diane asked smart questions and didn't pry about why Cara looked like she'd been hit by a truck.
They were heading back to the counter when the bell chimed again.
A woman in paint-stained jeans entered, dark hair pulled back, sketchbook tucked under her arm. Behind the thick, artsy glasses she had the distracted air of someone more interested in her own thoughts than her surroundings.
She approached the counter. "Could I get a large Americano? And one of those blueberry muffins."
"I'll get it," Diane said quietly, already moving behind the counter. "You should take a minute."
Cara nodded, grateful, and watched Diane work.
The woman was efficient. Made the Americano perfectly, warmed the muffin and rang up the order with easy conversation.
"Here you go. Fresh and hot."
"Thanks." The artist woman took her order to a corner table, opened her sketchbook. Started drawing something Cara couldn't see from this angle.
Another customer appeared. Then two more. The afternoon rush building.
Diane handled it smoothly. Took orders, made drinks, chatted with customers like she'd been working here for months instead of minutes.
Cara stood in the kitchen doorway, watching this stranger save her business while she fell apart.
"She's good," Piper murmured, appearing beside her. "Like, really good."
"Yeah."
"You should hire her."
"I don't know if I can afford—"
"You can’t afford not to." Piper turned to face her.
"I know."
"So let Reagan help. Let Diane help." Piper paused. "Let us all help. We're stronger together."
Cara's throat tightened. "When did you get so smart?"
"Born this way. It's a gift and a curse." Piper bumped her shoulder. "Seriously though. You look terrible. And I mean that with love."
"Thanks."
"Go home, and by that, I mean upstairs. Take a nap before our meeting tonight." Piper headed back to wipe down tables. "And maybe eat something. You're getting that shaky thing again."
Cara didn’t feel like she could just disappear on Diane, but she did eat.
And hide out in her office for an hour with her feet up.
By four, the rush had died down. Diane had handled it flawlessly—managing the register, troubleshooting equipment, even restocking the display cases with items Cara had forgotten about.
"You're really good at this," Cara said.
"Practice." Diane rinsed a cloth, hung it to dry. "Fifteen years in food service leaves a mark."
"What brought you to Haven Cove?"
Something flickered in Diane's expression. Pain, quickly hidden. "Needed a change. Seattle was... complicated. Reagan mentioned this place was quiet. That sounded good."
Another person running from something. Another person who'd landed in Haven Cove because it was safe and small and far away from whatever they were trying to forget.
Cara understood that more than Diane knew.
"Well, I'm glad you're here." She pulled out her phone. "Let me get your number. In case I need more help. Or just... whatever."
Diane read off the digits. Cara saved them, grateful for the lifeline she hadn't asked for but desperately needed.
"Thank you," Cara said.
"Don't thank me yet. We haven't discussed my rate." Diane smiled. "But Reagan said you were good people. That's worth something."
She grabbed her bag, headed for the door, paused. "Cara? Whatever you're dealing with... you don't have to do it alone. Just so you know."
She left.
Cara stood in the sudden quiet, Diane's words echoing.
Her phone buzzed.
Reagan: How'd it go with Diane? Isn't she a miracle?
Cara: Yes. Definitely.
Reagan: Did you hire her?
Cara stared at the message. She should have asked about schedule, about pay, about when Diane could start regularly. Should have done a dozen professional things.
The typing bubble appeared before she could respond.
Reagan: Idiot. I'll talk to her. She starts tomorrow, 6 AM. I'm paying her for the first week. Don't argue.
Cara: Thank you.
Reagan: That's what family does. See you at 7.
Cara looked at Piper, who was watching her with those too-knowing eyes.
"I need some rest before the meeting," Cara said. "Can you close up?"
"Of course. Is everything okay?"
"It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated lately." Piper's expression softened. "But yeah, I'll handle close. I’ve got my books with me. I can do homework until the meeting. But be aware, I’m going to eat, like a lot. Probably more than you’re paying me today."
Cara eyed the slight little thing. “I’m not worried.”
Piper tapped her head. “I might not look like much, but this brain requires a LOT of calories. Chocolate mostly. As long as you’re good with that.” She stuck her head into the pastry case to re-arrange the few treats left for sale.
Cara pulled out her phone, looked at the team chat.
She could still run. Before prison, running had literally been a way of life. Completely automatic, and mostly successful, if not a seriously depressing way to live.
Or she could fight back. Take this woman down.
Tonight, she'd tell the team about Blaire. Not about Carly Reid. Not about prison or federal charges. Just fill in the details of what Reagan and Wade already suspected.
And she’d ask for their help.