Chapter 13
Cara stood in her apartment above the shop, staring at her phone. The scent of caramel and spices drifting up through the floorboards felt like a mockery. Like everything good in her life—fragile, temporary, about to be ripped away.
Blaire's text sat at the top of her screen, sent while Cara had been driving back from Portland with Wade.
Ice settled in Cara's stomach.
The casual mention of Wade—identifying him as military with that same bright cheerfulness—sent a different kind of chill through her. How much did Blaire know about the others?
Cara moved to her bathroom mirror and studied her reflection.
Two versions of herself stared back: Carly Reid, convicted con artist who'd spent years manipulating wealthy collectors into buying fake masterpieces. And Cara Sweet, small-town baker trying desperately to be someone honest.
Tonight, she needed to be Carly again.
The thought made her stomach turn, but survival had never been about comfort. It had been about reading the room, playing the part, giving marks exactly what they expected to see.
Blaire expected to see a scared, desperate woman scrambling to meet an impossible deadline.
So that's what Cara would give her.
She sat at her small kitchen table, phone in hand, and started crafting her response. Wrote it. Deleted it. Wrote it again.
Every word mattered. Too desperate and Blaire would smell manipulation. Not desperate enough and she'd escalate the pressure.
The lies came back easily. Like muscle memory. Like putting on clothes that still fit perfectly even though she'd sworn she'd outgrown them.
Finally, she settled on: I wasn't running. I was meeting with someone about a loan. Trying to get your money together. It's harder than I thought. The bakery doesn't have that kind of cash flow. I'm working on it. Please.
Her thumb hovered over the send button.
That last word—Please—tasted like ash. But it was the kind of detail that would sell the performance. The kind of vulnerability that would make Blaire feel powerful.
She hit send.
The wait was excruciating.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Fifteen.
Cara paced her small apartment, checking her phone every thirty seconds. Had she overplayed it? Been too obvious? Not convincing enough?
This was the worst part of any con—the moment after the hook was set but before you knew if the mark had taken the bait. The moment when you were committed but helpless, waiting to see if your read had been accurate.
She'd spent twenty-three months in federal prison analyzing where she'd gone wrong. Now she was using those same skills to manipulate a manipulator.
And hating how naturally it came.
Her phone buzzed.
A loan? That's smart thinking! See? You're learning. Who'd you meet with? Just curious. I like to know these things.
Cara's hands shook as she read the message.
There it was—the test. Blaire wanted to verify. If Cara refused to share, it would look suspicious. But if she gave Blaire real information...
She needed to give Blaire something. But what?
Her mind raced through options. A real person would be too easy to check. A completely fictional one might not hold up if Blaire dug deep enough. She needed something in between—plausible but unverifiable.
She typed: A friend from my old life. Someone who knew me before Haven Cove. He's thinking about it. Said he needs a few days to move some money around.
The lie was vague enough to be hard to verify but specific enough to sound real. "Old life" suggested someone from her past—which Blaire was already digging into anyway. "He" made it sound like a specific person without giving a name. "Thinking about it" bought time without committing to anything.
She sent it before she could second-guess herself.
This time, Blaire's response came immediately:
Old life, huh? That sounds VERY interesting! What did you do in your old life, Cara? Before the bakery? I'm SO curious now!
Cara's blood turned cold.
Stupid. Sloppy. She'd just handed Blaire a new thread to pull.
Before she could figure out how to respond, another message came through:
But okay, I can be patient. For now. Keep me updated though! Daily check-ins starting tomorrow would be GREAT. Just a quick text so I know you're making progress. Nothing crazy!
Daily check-ins.
Blaire was tightening the leash. Making sure Cara stayed on the hook, stayed compliant, stayed scared.
Cara forced herself to type: Okay. I'll check in. Thank you for being patient.
The words made her want to throw her phone across the room. But that's what a desperate, grateful mark would say.
Of course, sweetie! I'm not a monster. I just need to protect my interests. You understand.
Then, after a pause:
BTW, that friend of yours—the military guy—he seems very protective. Reminds me of someone I used to know. Does he know about your situation? About me? Just wondering.
Cara's chest tightened.
The casualness of it. The implied threat wrapped in emojis and sweet language.
He's just a friend. He doesn't know anything.
Good! Let's keep it that way. The fewer people involved, the simpler this stays. Complications make me nervous, and you don't want me nervous.
Cara stared at her phone, that specific nausea she remembered from her old life churning in her gut. The post-con sick feeling. The knowledge that she'd just lied expertly, manipulated someone perfectly, and hated every second of it.
But this time was different.
This time, she wasn't the predator. She was the prey pretending to be caught while actually setting a trap.
The distinction felt thin tonight.
She looked around her apartment. The life she'd built as Cara Sweet. The cozy space above the bakery. The recipe books on the shelf—some Margaret's, some new ones she'd bought.
All of it built on lies.
But at least they'd been lies meant to protect. To hide. To survive.
Not lies meant to manipulate and control.
The distinction mattered. It had to matter.
Her phone buzzed with a new message. Team group chat.
Reagan: Meeting at 7:30? Tom says he found something.
Wade: I'll be there.
Tom: Bringing files on Mitchell's financial patterns.
Piper: Finished homework. I can analyze her Instagram engagement rates if that helps?
Cara stared at the messages. Her new friends, working to save her while she was lying to all of them about who she really was.
Another text came through, just to Cara this time. From Reagan.
Hey. I know today was hard. Portland, Latimer, trying to find Forsythe. You holding up?
Cara's fingers hovered over the keyboard. The easy lie would be "I'm fine." But Reagan would see through that immediately.
She typed: Barely. This is harder than I thought.
Reagan's response came quickly: Want help with the Forsythe call? I can do it if you want. Or be there with you when you call. Might be easier than doing it alone.
Cara's throat tightened.
Reagan was offering to take the hard thing. To spare Cara the pain of talking to a woman whose brother had died because of Blaire. To shoulder some of the burden.
When was the last time someone had done that? Just... offered to help without asking what was in it for them?
She typed: That's really kind. But I think I need to do this. Jessica needs to hear from someone who gets it. Someone in the same position.
Someone who was an expert con. Cara didn’t type that part.
Reagan: Okay. But I'm here if you change your mind. We all are.
Three dots again, then: You're not alone in this, Cara. Remember that.
Cara stared at the message.
Not alone.
When had she ever not been alone? Even with Dom Adler helping her escape, setting up the Margaret Sweet identity—that had been about survival, not family.
About getting her away from people who wanted her dead, not about connection.
Any family she had left, namely her actual father and his clan, were poison to her, people only wanting to pull her back into that old life.
There weren’t any friends from those days. None she’d even consider counting on.
She typed back: Thank you. See you at 7:30.
She set her phone down and pulled Tom's file on Jessica Forsythe across the table.
Inside, that photo of Shawn Forsythe stared up at her. Kind eyes. Gentle smile. His arms around two toddlers, both grinning at the camera. The picture of a man who loved his kids.
A man who'd paid Blaire everything he had and still ended up dead.
Below that, news articles about his suicide. A note from Tom: Found sealed in court records. Family tried to sue Mitchell, case dismissed.
And Jessica's information. Current address in Portland. Work phone. Personal cell.
Cara had to make this call before the meeting. She needed to know what they were dealing with. Would Shawn Forsythe’s sister help them?
But first, she pulled up a photo on her phone.
Gabe.
She'd taken it three days ago at the bakery, before Blaire showed up. He was laughing at something she'd said, coffee cup in hand, morning light making his dark hair look almost bronze. The laugh lines around his eyes deeper than usual. Happy. Relaxed. Real.
She'd taken it without thinking. Just wanted to capture that moment of easy happiness between them.
Now it felt like evidence of what she was going to lose.
When this all came out—when Blaire exposed her, or when Gabe's background check finally revealed the truth—this moment would be gone. This version of them would be impossible.
He'd have to choose between his feelings and his oath.
And Cara already knew which one he'd choose. Had to choose. He was too good a man not to take the obvious path. The legal and moral one.
She closed the photo and looked back at Shawn Forsythe's smiling face.
A good man who'd made the mistake of trying to hide from false accusations. Who'd been found by someone who turned human desperation into profit.
That could be her. Would be her if they didn't stop Blaire.
Or worse—it could be someone else. Someone Blaire would find next after Cara paid or ran or broke.
She picked up her phone and found Jessica's number.
Her thumb hovered over the call button. This was going to hurt. For both of them.
But Blaire's text sat at the top of her screen—the pink hearts and sparkle emojis wrapped around a threat. Around control. Around the promise of daily check-ins and tightening pressure and eventual destruction.
That friend of yours—the military guy—he seems very protective.
The implication was clear. Blaire was watching all of them now. Wade. Reagan. Tom. Piper.
Everyone Cara cared about.
The anger that flared was clean and sharp. Different from the fear she'd been living with. Different from the desperation.
Blaire thought she was untouchable. Thought her victims were too broken to fight back. Thought she could keep destroying lives and documenting it all with heart emojis and no one would ever stop her.
She was about to learn that some prey bites back.
Cara took a breath and pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
She waited, heart pounding, for Jessica Forsythe to answer.
To either give them the key they needed to stop Blaire.
Or to prove that some people were too damaged to save.