Chapter 8
By late afternoon, Gabe had been staring at Blaire Mitchell's digital footprint for hours, and with each passing minute, he liked what he saw less and less.
He sat at his desk in the police station, surrounded by the mundane machinery of small-town law enforcement. Forms for Harold Bianchi's rooster complaint. A stack of traffic citations waiting for review. The quarterly budget report the town council needed by Friday.
All of it felt like theater while the real work happened on his computer screen.
Blaire Mitchell was a predator with a business model built on human suffering.
Gabe rubbed his eyes, checked his watch.
Two PM. He'd been at this since seven this morning, interrupted only by a call about teenagers skateboarding in the grocery store parking lot and Mrs. Sanderson’s daily report about her neighbor's suspicious activities.
(Today: he'd received a package. At his own house. Clearly nefarious.)
He pulled up another case file. Marcus Webb, Portland. Blaire had been hired to find him eighteen months ago—his ex-business partner wanted to serve him with lawsuit papers. Standard skip trace work.
But then Marcus disappeared from his apartment two weeks later. And three weeks after that, Blaire posted on Instagram: Sometimes the people we're looking for don't want to be found. And that's okay! My job is just to provide answers. What happens after is up to the universe.
The comments were telling:
You're so amazing at this!
How much did this case pay?
I wish I could do what you do. So rewarding!
Gabe clicked through to Marcus's name in public records. Bankruptcy filing six months later. A restraining order he'd filed against "unknown parties engaging in harassment." A police report for cyberstalking that went nowhere.
He pulled up his phone, dialed the Portland PD number he'd found in the file.
"Detective Hackett."
"This is Chief Gabe Sawyer, Haven Cove Police. I'm calling about a case you worked last year. Cyberstalking complaint filed by Marcus Webb?"
A pause. "Yeah, I remember that one. Guy was a mess. Claimed someone was blackmailing him, but he wouldn't give us details. Wouldn't tell us who or what they had on him. Case went cold."
"Did the name Blaire Mitchell come up?"
"Hang on." Sounds of typing. "Yeah, actually. Webb mentioned her. Said she was a private investigator who'd been hired to find him for a civil case. But he wouldn't explain the connection to the blackmail. Got real cagey when we pushed."
"Did you follow up with Mitchell?"
"Tried. She claimed she'd completed her contract and moved on. Very professional, very cooperative. Even showed us her files—all clean. We couldn't prove anything." Hackett’s voice turned curious. "Why? She causing trouble in your jurisdiction?"
"Not sure yet."
"Well, off the record? I didn't like her.
Too smooth. Too clean. The kind of person who knows exactly where the legal lines are and dances right up to them without crossing.
" The man paused. "If you've got something on her, I'd love to know.
Webb wasn't our only complaint about her.
Just the only one that came close to charges. "
Gabe thanked him and hung up.
He pulled up his notes. That made four cases he'd found so far where Blaire had been hired to locate someone, and months later, that someone had filed complaints about harassment or financial irregularities.
None of the victims would cooperate with investigations. All of them went quiet shortly after.
So Blaire would get hired legitimately. Would find her target using legal methods. Would document everything for her Instagram—the investigation, the techniques, the eventual success. All above board.
Gabe guessed the rest. She’d approach the target privately and agree to keep their secrets…for a price, he had no doubt.
Completely untouchable from a legal standpoint unless some of her blackmail victims agreed to testify. Which never happened. That’s what made blackmail such a great con.
Gabe stood, paced his small office. The problem was evidence.
He had patterns, suspicions, connections.
But nothing that would hold up in court.
And certainly nothing that would give him grounds for official action.
Oh, and absolutely no jurisdiction now that he was tied to Haven Cove.
She'd talked to him at a diner, walked down Main Street, maybe filmed some video. All protected activities.
He couldn't arrest her, or even formally investigate her without probable cause.
But he could talk to her.
The thought had been building all day. Not as Police Chief Sawyer conducting official business. But as Gabe Sawyer, former FBI agent who knew how to apply pressure.
Sometimes the best way to stop a predator was to let them know they were being watched. Even better if he could make them understand that this particular target was protected. Often that was enough to get them to move on to easier pickings.
It was a risk, for sure. If Blaire decided to escalate instead of backing off. Could make things worse for Cara.
But doing nothing while Blaire circled closer felt impossible.
His phone rang. David.
"Hey, little brother. What's up?"
"Just calling to check on you." David's voice was warm. Healthy. So different from three weeks ago when Gabe had been racing against time to find him. "How's the chief thing going?"
"It's... an adjustment."
"That bad, huh?"
"Let's just say I spent an hour this morning explaining to Mrs. Sampson that her neighbor receiving mail is not, in fact, evidence of criminal activity."
David laughed. "Welcome to small-town life. You miss the Bureau yet?"
Gabe looked at his computer screen. At Blaire Mitchell's Instagram. At the pattern of destroyed lives wrapped in heart emojis and inspirational quotes.
"Sometimes the work finds you anyway."
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just... dealing with something. Nothing official."
"Cara, right?" David's tone turned knowing. “Dude, just ask her out. Seriously.”
Gabe made a strangled sound. “How about you stay in your lane, little bro.”
“Oooh, the Big Bro slap down. You’ve got it bad.” David paused. "Seriously though. You good? You sound stressed."
"I'm fine. Just figuring some things out."
They talked for a few more minutes—David's physical therapy progress, whether Haven Cove had any decent restaurants yet.
Normal conversation. Normal life.
While Gabe planned to confront a blackmailer in direct violation of everything his training said about letting situations develop without interference.
After he hung up, Gabe sat in silence.
He could call Tyler Price with the Oregon State Police to look into Blaire through official channels. Or if Tyler didn’t feel comfortable with that, he could reach out to the contacts he still had at the Bureau.
But that would take time. Weeks, maybe months. And it would involve explaining why he was interested in Blaire Mitchell. To do that, he’d have to put Cara in the crosshairs.
No. This needed to be handled quietly. Quickly. Before Blaire could do irreparable damage.
Gabe closed his files, locked his computer, grabbed his jacket.
Maggie Lowell, his desk sergeant, looked up from her monitor. "Heading out, Chief?"
"Following up on something. Call if anything urgent comes in."
"Will do. Oh, and the town council moved Friday's meeting to Monday. Something about the treasurer being out of town."
"Great. Thanks."
Gabe walked out into the afternoon sun, got in his truck, sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel.
This was a bad idea. Possibly a career-ending idea if it went wrong.
But the alternative—watching Blaire destroy Cara while he did nothing because his hands were officially tied—felt worse.
He'd spent fifteen years with the FBI learning how to read people. How to apply pressure. How to make someone understand they'd miscalculated.
Blaire Mitchell thought she was untouchable because she operated in legal gray areas and had a social media platform as protection.
She was about to learn that some people didn't care about platforms.
Gabe started the truck and headed toward the Haven Cove Inn. He’d seen the woman’s silver SUV parked outside for a couple days now.
Time to have a conversation.
Not as Police Chief Sawyer making official threats.
But as someone who understood exactly what Blaire was doing. And who had no intention of letting it continue.
The drive took two minutes. Small town geography meant everything was close. Gabe parked in the inn's lot, took a breath, got out.
The Haven Cove Inn was the kind of place that called itself "charming" and "rustic" but really meant "old and hasn't been updated since 1987." Floral wallpaper in the lobby. Ancient carpet that had probably been nice once. A front desk staffed by someone who looked barely old enough to drive.
"Can I help you, Chief Sawyer?" The kid—maybe eighteen?—straightened up when he saw the uniform.
"I'm looking for a guest. Blaire Mitchell. She checked in a few days ago."
"Oh, yeah. Room 212. She's actually out on the deck having coffee."
Of course she was. Probably filming it for Instagram.
"Thanks."
Gabe walked through to the small room that led out onto the expansive deck with a great view of the ocean—six tables, a coffee station, and that view the inn was so proud of. And there, at a corner table with perfect lighting, was Blaire Mitchell.
She had her phone propped up, filming herself. Speaking in that bright, bubbly voice that set his teeth on edge.
"—and that's why it's so important to trust your instincts when you're investigating someone. The truth comes out eventually. You just have to be patient. " She tapped her phone, stopped recording, looked up.
Saw him.
Her smile widened. "Chief Sawyer! What a surprise. Are you here to arrest me for something?" She laughed like it was a joke.
"Actually, I'm here to talk." Gabe pulled out the chair across from her. "Mind if I sit?"