Chapter 10
Cara stood at the top of the basement stairs at four fifty-five PM, holding two boxes of day-old pastries and a thermos of coffee she'd brewed specifically for this meeting.
If they were going to keep gathering in her basement to plan felonies, they might as well have decent snacks.
She could hear voices already—Wade's low rumble, Piper's higher pitch, Tom's occasional interjection. They'd beaten her here despite the fact that she literally lived upstairs.
The day had been long. Diane had shown up at six AM sharp, exactly as promised, with her own apron and a quiet competence that made Cara want to weep with relief.
By noon, Cara had made a decision that would have been unthinkable a week ago: she offered Diane a permanent position. Full-time. Competitive salary.
"Are you sure?" Diane had asked, wiping down the espresso machine. "That's a big commitment."
"I need the help," Cara had admitted. "And you're really good at this."
What she didn't say: I'm paying you out of my emergency escape fund because if I don't stop Blair, there won't be a bakery left to worry about anyway.
Diane had accepted. She immediately started working on inventory systems and supplier contacts while Cara handled the afternoon customers and tried not to think about the fact that she was depleting the cash she'd hidden for the day she had to run.
But maybe—just maybe—she wouldn't have to run this time.
Cara descended the stairs, pushed through the door.
The basement looked different today. Tom had rearranged his workstation, adding a second table with printouts and photographs spread across it.
Wade had mounted a corkboard on one wall, red string already connecting various points—very television detective, very Wade.
Reagan had brought in a proper coffee maker.
Piper sat on the floor again, surrounded by papers and her laptop, but this time she'd brought cushions, making the space more livable, and totally bohemian-teen.
"You brought food." Reagan spotted the boxes immediately. "You're my favorite person."
"Day-old, but still good." Cara set everything on the table. "Thought we might be here a while."
"Oh, yeah." Tom didn't look up from his screen. "I found some interesting stuff."
"Disturbing is more like it," Piper muttered, typing something.
Wade caught Cara's eye, gave a small nod. We've got movement. Progress.
"Okay." Cara poured herself coffee from Reagan's much better machine. "What did you find?"
Tom spun his chair around. He looked like he'd been up all night—which he probably had. "I've been digging through Blaire's financial records, cross-referencing with her Instagram posts, looking for patterns. Reagan helped me narrow down which cases to focus on."
"We concentrated on recent victims in the area," Wade added.
"And people whose situation we could verify independently," Tom said. "So we’re not walking in blind."
He pulled up a document with three names highlighted. "We found three strong candidates. All within the last eighteen months. All paid Blaire substantial amounts. All still locatable."
"Show me," Cara said.
Tom clicked on the first name. A photo appeared—middle-aged man, receding hairline, tired eyes. "Here’s our friend, Jeff Latimer, from last night. Age forty-six. Lives in Portland. Former investment banker with Morrison & Sterling—that's a big firm. Made high six figures easy."
"Former?" Cara asked.
"He's a manager at a fast-food place now." Tom pulled up more data. "Lost his job at Morrison & Sterling fourteen months ago. The same month Blaire posted about 'successfully locating' him for a client. Then the payments started."
He showed the financial records. "Seventy-five thousand dollars total paid over six months in increasingly desperate installments. Started at twenty thousand, dropped to fifteen, then ten, then smaller amounts. Like he was scraping together whatever he could."
"And now he's managing a fast-food restaurant?" Reagan's voice was grim.
"It gets worse. He lost his wife too. She got the house, the kids, everything. He's living in a studio apartment in a not-great part of Portland." Tom's expression was dark. "Blaire destroyed him."
"What did she have on him?" Wade asked.
"That's the thing. We can't figure it out." Tom pulled up more screens. "His employment record is clean. No criminal history. No obvious scandals. Whatever Blaire found, it's buried deep. Or it was something that didn't leave a public record."
"Could be financial fraud," Reagan suggested. "Investment bankers have access to a lot of money. Maybe he was skimming, or maybe he made some bad calls that cost clients money and covered it up."
"Or it could be personal," Wade said. "Affair, addiction, something his family didn't know about."
"Either way, he paid to keep it quiet." Cara looked at the photograph. "And lost everything anyway."
"Because Blaire didn’t stop," Tom said. "That's her pattern. Take the first payment, then come back for more. And more. Until the victim either has nothing left or—"
"Or what?" Piper asked quietly.
Tom pulled up the second profile. A young woman, early thirties, dark hair, kind eyes. "Or this happens. Jessica Forsythe. Age thirty-two. Portland."
Cara's stomach dropped. She could tell by Tom’s tone this one was going to be ugly.
"She’s not our victim, directly." Tom's voice was flat.
"She's the sister. Blaire located her brother, Shawn. This case is like Cara’s there was no client that I could find.
" He stopped. Started again. "Jessica's brother was Shawn Forsythe.
Turns out, he was hiding from domestic violence charges filed by his ex-wife. "
"False charges," Reagan added quietly. "We found the case records. The ex-wife later admitted she made it up during a custody dispute. But by then it was too late."
Tom pulled up a timeline. "Blaire found him. I found one record of fifteen thousand flowing out of Shawn Forsythe’s account and into hers.
My guess is that was all he could scrape together because the next thing is this.
” He put one of Blaire’s social posts up, a photo of a dark-eyed man with a great smile, his arms around two toddlers.
The caption read: successfully reunited a family, another case closed.
He paused. "Two days later, Shawn Forsythe killed himself. He left a note saying he couldn't face what was coming. Couldn't handle the exposure."
The room went silent.
"Blaire killed him," Piper said. Her voice shook. "Maybe not directly, but she—"
"She pushed him until he broke," Wade finished. "And then she moved on to the next victim."
Cara felt sick. "Did his family try to fight back? Sue her? Anything?"
"Jessica tried." Reagan pulled up legal documents.
"She filed a wrongful death suit. Claimed Blair's actions directly led to Shawn's suicide.
But Blair's lawyers buried it, threatening counter-suits for defamation, harassment, and emotional distress.
The Forsythe family was already devastated and broke from legal fees. They dropped it."
"So she got away with it," Cara said.
"She always does." Tom closed that file, opened the third. "Which brings us to victim three. Daniel Whitmore. Age thirty-eight. Lives in Atlanta now. Was living in Miami when Blaire found him."
He pulled up the profile. Professional-looking man, confident smile. "Whitmore was a lawyer. Environmental law. Made good money, respected in his field."
"Let me guess," Wade said. "Then money from his account ended up in Blaire’s."
Tom snapped his fingers. “Three weeks after Blaire found him, Whitmore paid her thirty-five thousand dollars. Then another twenty thousand two months later. Then he resigned from his firm, and is now working as a paralegal in Atlanta making a fraction of what he used to."
"What did Blaire have on him?" Cara asked.
"We think it's his law license." Tom pulled up more data. "Can't confirm this, but there's a sealed disciplinary action from the Florida Bar from three years ago. Whitmore kept his license, but it looks like it was a close call. If he'd been disbarred, his career would be over."
"So Blaire probably found evidence of whatever got him in trouble," Reagan said. "Threatened to go public, maybe contact the Bar Association directly. He paid to keep it quiet."
"And then paid again when she came back for more," Wade added.
Tom leaned back. "These are our three. Latimer, Forsythe, and Whitmore. All paid Blaire significant amounts. All had their lives destroyed anyway. All still reachable."
"Why them specifically?" Cara asked. "What makes them better targets than the others you found?"
"Proximity for two of them," Reagan said. "Latimer and Forsythe are both in Portland. We can drive there, meet them face to face, see if they'll talk."
"And Whitmore?"
"He's across the country, so we'll have to do him by phone," Tom said. "But he's the most recent victim. Only ten months ago. His wounds are still fresh. He might be more willing to talk than someone who's spent years trying to forget."
"Plus," Wade added, "Forsythe's situation is unique. Her brother's suicide—that's not just financial ruin. That's a death. If we can get her to talk, if we can document what Blaire did to her family, that's manslaughter territory. Maybe even murder if we can prove Blaire knew Shawn was suicidal."
"That would actually get law enforcement interested," Reagan said. "Financial fraud is one thing. But a death? That changes everything."
Cara looked at the three faces on the screen. Three lives destroyed. Three people who'd paid everything they had and lost anyway.
She'd been where they were. Was still there, actually. Trapped by someone who knew her secrets. Someone who wouldn't stop squeezing until there was nothing left.
But she had something they hadn't had.
A team. A plan. And years of experience running cons.
"Okay," she said, standing. Moving to the corkboard. "Here's what we're going to do."
Everyone turned to face her. Waiting.
Cara studied the three profiles, her mind already working through angles, approaches, vulnerabilities. This was what she'd spent years doing—reading people, finding their pressure points, figuring out how to get them to do what she needed.
She'd sworn off that life. But maybe, just this once, she could use those skills for something good.
"We approach them in person where we can," she said. "Latimer and Forsythe are both in Portland—two hours away. I’ll drive up tomorrow."
“Not alone,” Wade insisted. “You and I will take this together.”
She opened her mouth to protest. Wade, with his big, bad military vibe would be too intimidating. But one look at his face told her arguing would get her nowhere. He’d simply follow along if she didn’t agree.
“Excellent idea,” she said.
"Why you?" Tom asked. "No offense, but Reagan or I could—"
"Because I know how to talk to marks," Cara said. Then caught herself. "I mean, victims. People who've been conned. I know what they're thinking, what they're afraid of, what they need to hear."
She pointed to Latimer's profile. "He's running a fast-food place after making six figures as an investment banker. That's not just a career change—that's shame. He thinks he deserved what happened. That he brought it on himself. If we go in aggressive, demanding information, he'll shut down."
"So how do you approach him?" Reagan asked.
"Soft. Sympathetic. I tell him I'm going through the same thing. That Blair's blackmailing me too. That I need to know I'm not alone." Cara crossed her arms. "I don't ask for anything. I just... connect. Let him see that someone else understands."
"And if he won't talk?"
"I’ll figure it out as I go." She studied Jessica's photo. The kind eyes. The grief barely hidden.
"Forsythe's different," Cara said quietly. "Her brother's dead. Blaire didn’t just take her money—she took her family. That's not shame. That's rage."
"Rage we can use?" Wade asked.
"Rage I can redirect." Cara looked at him. "She's been powerless for eighteen months. Watched Blaire walk away from her brother's death with no consequences. If I can show her there's a way to fight back, a way to make Blaire pay..."
"She'll help," Reagan finished.
"She'll help." Cara pointed to the third profile. "Whitmore's across the country. We can't get to him in person, not quickly. So we do him by phone."
Reagan studied her with a new expression. Respect. Maybe a little wariness. "You're good at this."
"I used to be." Cara's voice was flat. "I spent years learning how to manipulate people. How to read them. How to get them to do what I needed." She looked around the room. "I swore I'd never use those skills again. But if it stops Blair..."
"Then you use them," Wade said firmly. "There's a difference between conning innocent people and protecting victims from a predator."
"Is there?" Cara asked quietly.
"Yes." Wade's voice was certain. "Intent matters. You're not doing this for money or power. You're doing it to save lives."
Cara wanted to believe that. Wanted to think using her old skills for good somehow made it okay.
But she remembered too many times when she'd justified doing wrong things for what felt like right reasons.