Chapter 11
Portland announced itself the way it always did — gray skies pressing low over the city, rain turning everything to smear and reflection.
Cara had made this drive more times than she could count.
Shopping trips, mostly, and mostly after dark, once the bakery was locked and she needed the kind of anonymity a city offered that Haven Cove never would.
But she'd never come up here hunting the wreckage of someone else's life to see if it matched her own.
Rain streaked the windshield, turning the city into watercolor smears of gray and green, bridges arcing over the Willamette like iron bones.
Beside her, Wade sat silent, one hand resting on the door handle. "Take the next exit," he said. "We're about ten minutes out."
Through the grimy windows, she could see the lunch rush. A handful of customers, teenagers at registers, someone in a manager's shirt moving between stations.
"That's him." Wade nodded toward the manager.
Jeff Latimer looked exactly like his photo—receding hairline, tired eyes, defeated slump. Nothing like the investment banker he'd been less than two years ago.
"How do you want to play this?" Wade asked.
"Soft. Non-threatening. I need him to see me as someone like him." She checked her reflection, adjusted her expression. "Try to look less dangerous."
His mouth quirked. "I'll do my best."
They waited until the lunch rush died down.
"Now," Cara said.
The smell hit them first—grease and disinfectant. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Latimer looked up as they approached. His customer service smile appeared automatically. "Welcome to the Hamburger Hut. How can I help you?"
"We're not customers," Cara said gently. "We have questions about Blaire Mitchell."
The rest of the color drained from his pallid face.
"Get out." His voice shook. "I’ll call the cops."
"Mr. Latimer—"
"I said get out."
Cara let her feelings for Blaire Mitchell show. Every one of them. "She's blackmailing me too."
But Latimer was reaching for the phone on the wall next to him. He froze.
"I'm being blackmailed by Blaire Mitchell." Her voice cracked. "I've paid her once. She's asking for more. I thought maybe if I could talk to someone else who'd been through it..."
Latimer's jaw worked. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You're working for her." His laugh was bitter. "I may be managing a burger joint now, but I'm not stupid."
"We're not recording anything," Wade said quietly. "And we're definitely not working for her."
Latimer glanced at a watching teenager, then jerked his head toward the back office. "Five minutes."
The office was tiny and sad. Latimer closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed. "Talk."
"She found something about my past. Something that could destroy my life. She's asking for money. I paid twenty thousand. Now she wants fifty more."
Latimer's laugh was hollow. "And then she’ll keep coming at you. She started me at twenty thousand too."
"How much did you end up paying?"
"Seventy-five thousand. Everything I had. Savings, 401k, money for my kids' college." His voice was dead. "I cashed it all out. Paid every penalty. And you know what? She still came back. Wanted another fifty."
"What did you do?"
"I told her I didn't have it. She made good on her threats." He gestured around. "This is what I have now. A twenty-year-old Civic with bald tires and an oil leak I can't afford to fix. A studio apartment. I can't even afford premium cable."
"What did she have on you?" Cara asked quietly.
His jaw tightened. "Doesn't matter."
"It might—"
"Whatever I did—it's over. At least I’m not in jail. But my old firm won't touch me. None of them will. I'm blacklisted. I'll be managing fast food until I die."
"There might be a way to stop her," Wade said. "If multiple victims came forward—"
"You don't get it. You don't know what she's capable of. She's connected. Has resources. Friends in places that matter. If you go after her, she'll destroy you."
"We should go," Wade said quietly.
"Yeah." Latimer moved to the door. "Look, I get what you're trying to do. But trust me—fighting her doesn't work. The best thing you can do is pay what she asks and try to rebuild."
"That's it?" Cara heard the desperation in her voice. "Just give up?"
"That's not giving up. That's surviving." He opened the door. "Now get out. I can't afford to lose this job too."
They left through the side door into gray Portland afternoon. Rain had started falling.
"Dead end," Wade said.
"Complete dead end." She watched Latimer through the window. "He's too broken. Even if we had evidence—he won't testify."
"Can't blame him."
"No. I can't."
"The sister," Wade said finally. "Forsythe. She's different."
"Yeah. Her brother's dead. That's not just fear. That's rage." She met Wade's eyes. "Rage we might be able to use."
Jessica Forsythe worked at a marketing firm downtown—third floor of a converted warehouse building, exposed brick and industrial windows.
They found parking two blocks away and walked through the rain.
"I'll go in alone," Cara said. "You're too …you."
Wade raised an eyebrow. "Too me?"
"You know what I mean. Too 'I've seen things and buried bodies.'" She gestured at him. "You walk into a marketing agency, everyone's going to assume you're either a cop or someone's very angry husband."
"Fair point." He pulled up his hood. "I'll wait out here looking like a very angry husband in the rain."
The lobby was all exposed concrete and artfully distressed furniture. A receptionist sat behind a reclaimed wood desk.
"Hi," Cara said. "I'm looking for Jessica Forsythe? I'm an old friend."
The receptionist looked up, smiling. "Oh, I'm sorry. Jessica's not in today."
"Do you know when she'll be back?"
"Tomorrow, hopefully. She's been out sick a lot lately." Concern crossed the receptionist's face. "She hasn't been herself for a while now. We're all a little worried about her."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll try reaching her at home. Thanks."
She found Wade waiting on a bench across the street, two bottles of water in hand.
"Not there," she said.
"Figured." He handed her a bottle. “Drink. Dehydrated brains don’t work well.”
She clutched the cold bottle. “How can you possibly––“
"Drink the water, Cara.” His tone left no room for argument.
She drank. He was probably right.
“What next?” He asked.
Cara wiped her mouth. "We check her apartment."
The condo complex was newer construction, all sleek lines. Upper middle class. Comfortable. The life Jessica had built before Blaire destroyed it.
They buzzed apartment 3C.
No answer.
Cara tried again. Still nothing.
"She's not home," Wade said.
"Or she's not answering."
"We're not breaking in. Not yet."
Cara bit back a smile. He knew her too well already. “Fine.” She headed back toward the car.
He jogged after her. "So what's the play?"
"We call her." Cara pulled out her phone. "Tom got her number. I'll try that."
She dialed.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
"Jessica, my name is Cara. I need to talk to you about what happened to your brother. Please call me back." She left her number and disconnected.
"So we wait," Wade said.
They walked back to the car. Portland stretched around them, gray and indifferent.
They drove back toward Haven Cove in silence, rain hammering on the windshield.
Not exactly the progress they'd hoped for.
But Cara had learned: sometimes survival meant taking whatever small wins you could get.
She just had to hope they'd get that chance before Blaire came back.
Or before Gabe discovered who she really was.
Whichever came first.