Chapter 20
The old lighthouse keeper's cottage sat on a rocky outcropping a mile north of Haven Cove, accessible only by a winding dirt road that turned treacherous in the rain.
Tonight, the fog had rolled in thick, turning the landscape into something from a gothic novel. The lighthouse itself had been decommissioned decades ago, but the keeper's cottage remained standing, a weathered gray structure that tourists occasionally photographed and locals mostly ignored.
Cara pulled her car onto the gravel shoulder fifty yards from the cottage, killed the engine, and sat in the darkness.
Wade was already in position somewhere out there, though she couldn't see him.
Tom was monitoring from the bakery basement, tracking Blaire's phone and any digital activity. Piper sat beside him. Reagan waited in her car a quarter mile down the road, close enough to respond if things went sideways.
No wire. Tom had suggested it, but Cara had shut that down immediately.
Anything Blaire said while being secretly recorded would be useless in court and could actually hurt them if it came out later.
More importantly, if Blaire somehow discovered it, the fragile con they were running would shatter completely.
This meeting was about one thing: convincing Blaire that Cara hadn't gone to the FBI. Keeping herself in Blaire's good graces—or at least, keeping Blaire from escalating—while the team worked on taking her down.
Cara checked the time again. Seven fifty-four.
She thought about what she knew and what she couldn't let Blaire know she knew.
Tonight, she was just Cara Sweet. Scared baker. Blackmail victim. Someone who wanted this nightmare to end.
She'd played marks before. Had been good at it. Had sworn she'd never do it again.
But this was different. This was survival.
Lord, help me get through this. Help me say the right things. And please, please don't let her see through me.
Cara got out of the car.
The fog swallowed her almost immediately, muffling the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below. She walked toward the dim light glowing from the cottage's single front window, gravel crunching under her feet.
Blaire's silver Mercedes was already parked near the cottage. Good. She'd arrived first, which meant she'd had time to get settled.
Cara needed her complacent. People who felt in control got careless.
The cottage door opened before she reached it.
Blaire stood silhouetted in the doorway, and for a moment, Cara almost didn't recognize her.
Gone was the Instagram-perfect influencer with the designer athleisure and the carefully curated smile.
This Blaire looked hollowed out. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. She wore jeans and an oversized sweater that made her look smaller, younger, somehow diminished.
"You came alone?" Blaire's voice was tight. Suspicious.
"You told me to."
Blaire studied the darkness behind Cara, searching for movement, for headlights, for any sign she'd been betrayed. Finally, she stepped aside.
The cottage interior was sparse. A single room with a cold wood stove, a table and two chairs, a sagging couch that had probably been comfortable sometime in the 1970s. Battery-powered lanterns provided the only light, casting harsh shadows across the walls.
No electricity out here. No cell service either, which was probably why Blaire had chosen it.
Blaire closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed, studying Cara with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
"Did you do it?"
Cara kept her expression confused, letting her genuine fear show through. That part wasn't hard. "Do what? Blaire, you called me here in a panic. What's going on?"
"Don't play stupid." Blaire's voice cracked. "The FBI. Someone contacted them. Someone told them about my methods. And you're the only one with a reason to do that."
"The FBI?" Cara let her eyes go wide. "What are you talking about? I've been trying to get your money together, just like you asked. Why would I go to the FBI?"
"Because you're desperate. Because you think they'll protect you." Blaire pushed off the door, started pacing. "Because you don't understand what happens to people who cross me."
Cara took a step back, letting her voice shake. "Blaire, I didn't contact anyone. I've been too scared to even tell my friends what's happening. You made it very clear what would happen if I told anyone."
"Then how do you explain this?" Blaire pulled out her phone, thrust it toward Cara. "Read it."
Cara took the phone with trembling hands—not entirely faked—and read the email from "Special Agent Rita Martinez." The one Tom had crafted so carefully.
"This is..." Cara looked up, making sure her expression showed shock. "Blaire, this is serious. The FBI is investigating you?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Blaire snatched the phone back. "Someone tipped them off. Someone who knows about my cases. About my methods."
"It wasn't me." Cara met her eyes, putting every ounce of sincerity she could muster into the words. "I swear to you, it wasn't me. The last thing I want is the FBI looking into anything connected to me."
That, at least, was completely true.
Blaire's eyes searched her face, looking for the lie. Cara held her gaze, kept her breathing steady, projected nothing but fear and confusion.
Finally, something shifted in Blaire's expression. Not trust, exactly. But doubt.
"If it wasn't you, then who?"
"I don't know." Cara spread her hands. "You said you've done this to other people. Maybe one of them got brave. Maybe someone you investigated years ago finally decided to fight back."
Blaire's laugh was bitter. "They don't fight back. They're too scared. Too broken."
"Maybe one of them isn't."
Blaire went still. Something flickered across her face—a memory, maybe. A name she hadn't thought about in a while.
Then she shook her head. "It doesn't matter who did it. What matters is what I do now."
"What are you going to do?"
"My lawyer says to preserve everything. Don't delete anything. Don't talk to anyone about my cases." Blaire's voice turned mocking. "Like I'm stupid enough to put anything incriminating in writing."
Cara stayed quiet, letting Blaire talk.
"But this changes things." Blaire turned to face her. "I can't afford any more complications. The FBI is watching. My lawyer's watching. Everyone's watching."
"What does that mean for me?" Cara asked carefully. "For the money?"
Blaire was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was different. Calculating.
"Maybe we need to rethink our arrangement."
"Rethink it how?"
"I don't need your money. What I need is..." She paused, choosing her words. "What I need is someone who can vouch for me. If the FBI comes asking questions. If anyone comes asking questions."
Cara's mouth dropped open, an expression she didn't have to fake. "You want me to lie for you?"
"Lies won't work here. I want you to tell a version of the truth." Blaire's smile was thin. "You inherited a bakery. The paperwork was complicated. I'm a private investigator who helped you sort through some family history questions. Everything was legitimate. Everything was above board."
"That's not what happened."
"It could be what happened. If we both agree that's what happened." Blaire moved closer, her voice dropping. "Think about it, Cara. I stop asking for money. You help me establish that I'm a legitimate businesswoman if anyone asks. We both walk away clean."
In the dim lantern light, Blaire's eyes glittered. This wasn't friendship she was offering. It was another kind of trap.
"I need to think about it," Cara said.
"Take a day or two." Blaire's expression hardened. "But don't take too long. And don't make me regret trusting you with this conversation. If anyone finds out what I've told you tonight..."
"I won't tell anyone."
"Good." Blaire checked her phone. "I need to get back. My lawyer's calling at nine."
She moved toward the door, and Cara felt a wave of relief wash through her. It was almost over. She'd played the part, kept Blaire calm, bought the team more time.
"Cara."
She turned. Blaire stood at the door, hand on the frame.
"I meant what I said. About rethinking things." Something almost human flickered in Blaire's expression. "I'm not a monster. I'm just... I'm just trying to survive. Same as you."
The words hit harder than they should have. Because in some twisted way, Blaire believed them. Believed she was justified. Believed that what she did to people was just business.
"I'll think about it," Cara said.
Blaire nodded and walked out into the fog.
Cara stood alone in the cottage for a long moment, listening to Blaire's footsteps crunch across the gravel. The Mercedes door opened. Closed. The engine started.
She let out a shaky breath, then moved toward the door herself. Time to get to her own car, debrief with the team, figure out what Blaire's sudden change of tactics actually meant.
I'm not a monster. I'm just trying to survive.
Right. And Cara was the Queen of England.
Blaire Mitchell didn't do anything that didn't benefit Blaire Mitchell. This offer to "rethink" their arrangement wasn't mercy. It was a pivot. The FBI scare had rattled her, and now she needed allies more than she needed Cara's money.
Cara stepped out into the fog, pulling the cottage door shut behind her. The cold, damp air hit her face as she started walking toward her car, parked on the gravel shoulder fifty yards away.
Still, maybe they could use this somehow. Blaire was scared. Vulnerable. Looking for someone to trust. If Cara could get closer to her, gain access to more information about the hunting program, the victim files, the financial records...
That was how they'd take her down. Not through blackmail or threats, but by getting inside her operation. Finding the evidence they needed. Destroying the program that let her hunt vulnerable people.
Cara's mind was racing with possibilities as she walked, gravel crunching under her feet. The fog was thick enough that she could barely see her own car ahead, just the faint gleam of its outline in the darkness.
Behind her, Blaire's Mercedes rumbled.
Headlights cut through the fog, sweeping across the parking area as the car began to move.
Cara kept walking, not looking back. Ten more feet to her car. She'd call Wade first, let him know she was safe. Then they'd regroup at the bakery and figure out—
The engine note changed.
Louder. Revving.
Cara turned.
Blaire's Mercedes shot straight toward her, accelerating.
For one frozen moment, Cara's mind couldn't process what she was seeing. The headlights grew brighter, closer. The engine screamed. The car wasn't turning. Wasn't following the curve of the drive toward the road.
It was aimed directly at her.
Cara threw herself sideways—