Chapter 7
The basement of Sugar & Salt Bakery didn't look like the headquarters of a vigilante operation.
It looked like a storage room that someone had tried very hard to make functional: concrete floor, exposed pipes, fluorescent lights that flickered occasionally.
Tom had set up a workstation in one corner—multiple monitors, server equipment, enough tech to make the NSA jealous.
Wade had installed a weapons locker disguised as a filing cabinet.
Reagan had added a conference table that looked like it came from a school surplus sale.
Cara descended the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.
They were all there. Waide, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, giving her an encouraging nod.
Reagan at the table, a plate of day-old muffins from the bakery, arranged like it was a normal meeting.
Tom at his computer station, though for once his hands weren't moving, an open energy drink forgotten beside his keyboard.
Piper perched on the edge of the desk, swinging, her legs clearly sensing something big was happening.
Reagan and Wade already knew she was in trouble. But they didn't know the details, but they didn’t know how bad things really were.
"Cara." Reagan gestured to a chair. "Sit. You ready to tell us what we're dealing with?"
She sat, ignoring the muffins and wrapped her arms around herself.
"Wait, what?" Piper looked between them. "Tell us what? What's going on?"
"Cara's been dealing with something," Reagan said. "We're here to help."
Tom spun his chair around. "Dealing with what?"
This was it. The moment where she either asked for real help or kept drowning alone.
"Someone's blackmailing me," Cara said.
Piper's eyes went wide. "What?"
"Blackmail?" Tom's fingers moved to his keyboard. "Over what?"
"The bakery." Cara forced herself to keep going. "Margaret Sweet. Someone found out... things. And they're threatening to expose me."
"Found out what things?" Tom asked.
"Wait, back up." Piper held up her hand. "Who's blackmailing you? When did this start?"
"Yesterday. A woman came into the bakery. Blaire Mitchell."
"Wait, the Instagram woman?" Piper sat up straighter. "The really pretty one with the perfect hair who ordered the latte? I've seen her around town too. "
"Yeah. That one." Cara's hands tightened on her cup. "She seemed like just another tourist at first. Lifestyle influencer. But then she—" Cara's voice caught. "She told me she knew. That she'd figured it out."
"Figured what out?" Tom was watching her carefully now.
This was the cliff edge. The moment where she either told them or lost them.
“Margaret Sweet wasn't my great-aunt. That the inheritance—" She stopped. Started again. "Someone helped me. A friend. The real heir. They set everything up so I could inherit the bakery. So I could have a fresh start. A new life."
The silence was deafening.
Piper's legs stopped swinging. "Wait. You mean... you're not actually related to Margaret Sweet?"
"No."
"But you said—the whole story about being her grandniece, about finding out about the inheritance—"
"Was fabricated." Cara forced herself to meet Piper's eyes. "By someone who had the legal right to the estate. Margaret's actual heir. A friend who wanted to help me disappear."
The silence stretched.
Piper looked at her for a long moment, then glanced at her dad. Tom's expression was unreadable.
Wade spoke first. "Okay."
"Okay?" Cara stared at him. "That's it? Just okay?"
"What do you want me to say?" Wade shrugged. "Someone helped you get a fresh start. Now someone else is threatening to expose it. That about cover it?"
"I—yes, but—"
"Then okay." Wade looked at the others. "Anyone else need more than that?"
Reagan shook her head. "Blaire Mitchell. That's the name we're focusing on. She's the threat. Everything else is background."
Tom turned back to his computer without a word, fingers already moving. "This Blaire Mitchell—she's a professional investigator?"
"I guess. You can look her up. She’s all over social media. She finds people." Cara looked down at her coffee. "And she found me."
"How?" Wade pushed off the wall. "What tipped her off?"
"No idea. She's good at what she does. She must have seen something that didn't add up."
"Tell them what she wants," Reagan ordered.
Cara looked down at her hands. "Fifty thousand dollars.
In two weeks. Or she posts what she found on Instagram where her thousands of followers will help dig into my background—" Cara stared at the floor.
"I've been lying to you since I got here.
About everything. The bakery, the inheritance, who I am—"
"Not everything," Piper said quietly. "You weren't lying about helping David. That was real. Or about being nice to me when I started working here. That was real too."
"And honestly," Reagan said, "we don't exactly have the moral high ground here. We all have things we don't talk about."
"But this is different—"
"That’s not how I see it." Wade crossed his arms. "We don’t do explanations. We don't dig. We don't push for details."
"Because we all ended up in Haven Cove for reasons we'd rather not discuss," Tom added, still not turning from his screen. "And that's fine. What matters is who we are now, not who we were."
"But what if who I was is really bad?" Cara's voice cracked. "What if—"
"Then that's your past," Reagan said firmly.
"But if Blaire exposes me, if people start investigating, you'll all be connected to me. They'll look at everyone who helped me—"
"Got it." Tom clapped his hands together. "Blaire Mitchell. Professional skip tracer and influencer. I'm pulling everything." He whistled. “Yowza. That’s a lot of followers. How many victims are we talking?"
"No idea." Cara wrapped her arms around herself. "And I have eleven days to come up with fifty thousand dollars that I don't have."
"Or we go with my idea." Wade moved to the table. "Make her back off. Find her pressure points. Turn the tables."
"How?" Cara asked. "She's got documentation. Evidence. She could post it anytime."
"Then we need to make her not want to," Reagan said. "Find leverage. Everyone has something they're afraid of losing."
"What about her other victims?" Piper asked. "Could we find them? Get them to testify against her?"
"They won't." Cara's voice was hollow. "They're all hiding from something, just like me. Going public means exposing whatever Blaire found. That's why they paid in the first place."
"Then we don't go legal." Wade's expression was grim. "We handle it ourselves."
"Wade—" Reagan started.
"I'm not saying we hurt her. I'm saying we scare her. Make her understand that messing with Cara means messing with all of us."
"That could backfire," Tom pointed out. "Make her escalate instead of backing down."
"So we're smart about it." Reagan pulled out her notebook. "We investigate her first. Find her patterns, her methods, her vulnerabilities. Then we figure out the best way to apply pressure."
"I can track her movements," Wade offered. "See who she talks to, where she goes."
"I'll dig into her digital presence," Tom said. "Email, cloud storage, financial records. If she's blackmailing multiple people, she's keeping records somewhere."
"And I'll analyze her social media," Piper added. "Engagement patterns, follower demographics, who she interacts with most. There's always stuff people miss if you know where to look."
"I'll reach out to some old contacts," Reagan said carefully. "See if anyone's heard of her. If she's been doing this long enough, she might have crossed paths with people I know."
They were all talking at once now, planning, strategizing, their voices overlapping as the plan took shape.
Cara sat in the middle of it, overwhelmed.
"What about me?" she asked when there was a break. "What do I do?"
"You run the bakery," Reagan said firmly. "Look scared. Don't let Blaire know we're investigating."
"Just keep doing what you're doing," Wade added. "We'll handle the rest."
"And if Blaire contacts me?"
"Don't respond unless you have to. If she pushes, stall. Tell her you're working on getting the money." Reagan met her eyes. "But don't engage more than necessary. We need time to work."
"What about Gabe?" The question slipped out before Cara could stop it.
The room went quiet.
"What about him?" Tom asked carefully.
"He knows something's wrong. And he knows I'm running from something."
Reagan rubbed her face. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. I shut him out. Told him I was handling it."
"Good." Wade nodded. "Keep it that way. We’re going to have to go on the dark side of legal here. Can’t involve him."
Definitely not. Cara stood. "Okay. Let’s meet here every night at seven. Share findings, adjust strategy.”
“Agreed,” Wade added, knees cracking as he rose. “Eleven days isn't much time, but it's enough if we're smart."
"And if we're not?" Piper asked.
"Then Cara disappears and we all claim ignorance." Tom's voice was matter-of-fact. "But let's not get to that point."
The team dispersed. Tom to his computers. Piper pulling up Instagram analytics. Wade checking his surveillance equipment. Reagan making a list of contacts to call.
Cara sat at the table, watching them work.
Reagan sat back down beside her. "Hey. You okay?"
"I don't know. This is... a lot."
"You did good tonight. Telling us. Asking for help. That took courage."
"I'm still lying to you," Cara said quietly. "There's so much I'm not telling you."
"I know." Reagan's smile was gentle. "But you told us enough. The rest? That's yours to share when you're ready. If you're ever ready. That's the deal we all have here. We don't push."
"What if what I did is really bad? Worse than you think?"
"Then it's really bad." Reagan shrugged. "But you're here now. You're helping people now. David Sawyer is alive because of you. That's who you are now. The rest?" She gestured vaguely. "That's between you and whatever comes next."
Cara's throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until we actually pull this off." Reagan stood. "Now go home. Get some sleep. Let us work."
Cara climbed the stairs, paused at the top to look back.
Tom at his computers, code scrolling across screens.
Piper analyzing Blaire's Instagram feed, making notes.
Wade organizing equipment with military precision.
Reagan on the phone, speaking low and fast to someone.
Her team. Working to save her.
Without asking questions they had every right to ask.
Because they all had secrets. They all had pasts they didn't talk about.
And they'd made a choice—together—not to let those pasts define them.
She closed the door and headed upstairs.
Tomorrow, Diane would start at the bakery. The team would start investigating Blaire. The clock would keep ticking.
But tonight, for the first time in days, Cara wasn't drowning alone.