Chapter 17
Diane was supposed to handle the early morning prep, but Cara hadn’t been able to make herself stay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling.
By the time Diane arrived, she had the baking started.
She emerged from the kitchen with the last tray of almond croissants just as Diane let herself in the back door.
Diane immediately took them from her hands. "I've got this. You look dead on your feet."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not." Diane's voice was kind but firm. "Go sit down. Drink your coffee. I can handle the counter."
Cara wanted to argue. This was her bakery, her responsibility. But the truth was, she couldn't handle everything. Not with Blaire's deadline ticking down. Not with the team's plan in motion. Not with the constant fear churning in her gut.
"Thank you," she managed. "Really. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Diane smiled. "You'd probably collapse from exhaustion. Now go. Rest for five minutes before the rush hits."
Cara retreated to the office, sank into the chair with coffee in hand. Through the doorway, she watched Diane greeting the first customers with easy warmth. Everything under control.
Thank you, Lord, she prayed silently. Thank you for Diane. Thank you for Reagan finding her. I don't know how You knew I'd need this help, but You did. Please keep her safe from whatever's coming.
The pause, the small moment of gratitude, grounded her. Reminded her she wasn't completely alone. Even in chaos, there were good things. People helping without knowing the full story.
Grace in unexpected places.
Her phone buzzed.
The moment of peace shattered.
Blaire: Good morning, sweetie! Just checking in! How's the loan situation going? Any progress?
None she’d share with their new mark. She typed carefully.
Still working on it. My friend needs more time to liquidate some assets. I'm trying, I promise.
The response came almost immediately.
Cara, we agreed on a timeline. I have a life. I can’t change it now. I'm being SO patient already.
Cara's stomach dropped. She typed carefully: I know. I'm sorry. I'm doing everything I can. Please.
8 days, Cara. Not a day more. And I want daily check-ins. EVERY morning.
I will. I promise.
You'd better. I'm very busy and I don't have time for excuses. Get me that money.
Cara set down her phone.
Diane glanced over with concern but didn't ask.
By a little after nine, the team arrived, greeting Cara with nods and waves as they headed down to the basement. She followed them down.
Tom took a long sip of coffee then spun his chair. "Blaire's been investigating Miranda nonstop. She's hit every database we planted breadcrumbs in. Employment records, financial transactions, hotel stays."
"Is the program working?" Reagan asked.
"Perfectly. Watch." Tom pulled up a screen showing automated queries. "She's not typing these manually. The software is doing pattern recognition, cross-referencing data points, flagging anomalies."
"And your backdoor?"
"Forty percent complete. Every time she accesses the system, I get deeper." Tom's smile was tired but satisfied.
At ten-fifty-five, her phone buzzed.
Reagan: About to call Blaire. Wish me luck.
Cara: You've got this.
She tried to focus on customers, on making lattes and ringing up sales. But her mind was in the basement, listening to a conversation she couldn't hear.
Diane touched her arm. "You okay? You seem distracted."
"Just tired."
"Why don't you take a break? I can handle things for a bit."
Cara wanted to refuse. But she needed to know what was happening with Reagan and Blaire.
"Fifteen minutes," she said. "I'll be in the office if you need me."
She closed the office door, sat at the desk, and waited.
A few minutes later, her phone rang. Reagan.
"How did it go?"
"She's hooked." Reagan's voice carried satisfaction. "Completely bought Lisa Ross as the vengeful business partner. I played desperate but professional—gave her enough details to keep investigating but held back the really juicy stuff."
"What did you tell her?"
"That Miranda and I started the company together.
That I trusted her completely. That when the SEC came sniffing around, I discovered she'd been embezzling for two years.
" Reagan paused. "I made it personal. Told Blaire that Miranda wasn't just my business partner—she was my friend. The betrayal hurt more than the money."
"Did Blaire buy it?"
"Completely. She actually sounded sympathetic. Said she understood how painful betrayal was." Reagan's laugh was bitter. "The irony."
"What did she ask for?"
"Access to Miranda's personnel files. Her last known addresses. Any communication I had with her after she disappeared." Reagan rattled off the list. "I told her I'd send everything by end of day. That I wanted her to find Miranda fast—before the feds did."
"That'll keep her motivated."
"That's the idea. She's scheduled another call for tomorrow. Wants to update me on her progress." Reagan paused. "Cara, she's really good at this. The way she built rapport, made me feel heard, promised results. If I didn't know what she was, I'd trust her completely."
"That's how she gets them," Cara said quietly.
Silence on the line.
"We're going to stop her," Reagan said finally. "Tom's almost in."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.
Cara worked beside Diane, making lattes, boxing pastries and smiling at customers, all of it on autopilot.
What would they find in Blaire's system? How many victims? How much evidence of illegal database access?
Would it be enough to stop her?
Finally, she flipped the sign to "Closed" and locked the door.
Diane was counting the register. "Good day. Better than yesterday."
"Thanks to you."
"We make a good team." Diane bagged the day's earnings. "You heading out?"
"Meeting with friends. You?"
"Home. Hot bath. Terrible reality TV." Diane smiled. "The glamorous life."
After Diane left, Cara stood alone in the darkened bakery.
She pulled out her phone, looked at Blaire's latest text.
Don't forget your check-in tomorrow, sweetie! And don't stress too much about the money. I'm sure your friend will come through.
The casual cruelty of it. The performative sweetness masking the threat.
Cara locked the register, turned off the lights, and headed for the basement stairs.
The team was already gathered when she descended.
Tom at his monitors, surrounded by the growing graveyard of energy drink cans, Wade at the whiteboard, Reagan leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, Piper sprawled across the tie-dyed bean bag chair she’d schlepped over last week, laptop on the floor in front of her.
Tom's smile was exhausted but triumphant.
"I'm in," he said. "Full access. And guys—you're not going to believe what I found."