Chapter 22
Cara was bleeding.
That was all Gabe could see as he ran toward the wreckage. Not the crumpled Mercedes. Not Wade Patterson emerging from the shadows. Not the steam rising from the destroyed engine or the one headlight still blazing into the fog.
Just Cara. Blood running down her face.
But standing. Alive.
The relief that flooded through him was staggering. Unprofessional. Completely inappropriate for a police chief arriving at a crime scene.
He didn't care.
"Cara." He reached her, hands hovering without touching, scanning for injuries. "Are you hurt? What happened?"
"I'm fine." Her voice trembled. "Gabe, what are you—how did you—"
"The car." He forced himself to focus, to think like a cop instead of a man who'd just watched the woman he was falling for nearly get killed. "Did she hit you?"
"No. I dove out of the way. It's just scrapes."
Just scrapes. She'd thrown herself onto gravel to avoid being run down, and she was calling it just scrapes.
He wanted to pull her into his arms. Wanted to hold her until the shaking stopped—hers and his.
Instead, he made himself step back and look at the scene with professional eyes.
The Mercedes had hit the rock wall head-on, the front end crumpled like aluminum foil. Steam hissed from the destroyed radiator. Through the shattered driver's window, he could see Blaire Mitchell slumped over the steering wheel, blood on her face, unconscious.
Wade stood near the passenger side, rifle slung over his shoulder, face grim. The man had appeared out of nowhere, which meant he'd been watching from the shadows. Providing backup Cara hadn't mentioned she'd have.
Good. At least she hadn't come alone.
"She's alive," Wade said, reading Gabe's expression. "Pulse is steady. Breathing's shallow but consistent. Probable concussion from the head wound."
"You moved her?"
"No. Got the passenger door open to check her vitals, but she's pinned behind the steering column. Driver's door is jammed." Wade shook his head. "We'll need the fire department to cut her out. I told dispatch when I called it in."
Gabe nodded. Standard procedure. Moving someone with potential spinal injuries could cause more damage than the original accident. Better to wait for professionals with the right equipment.
He moved closer, peered through the open passenger door. Blood still seeped from the gash on her forehead, but head wounds always looked worse than they were.
"Blaire. Can you hear me?" No response. He didn't expect one.
Gabe's mind clicked into investigator mode, even as his heart was still racing.
He'd parked his truck a quarter mile down the road, killing the headlights before Cara could spot him in her rearview mirror.
Had told himself he just wanted to make sure she was safe.
That he'd watch from a distance, confirm she wasn't meeting with anyone dangerous, and leave before she knew he'd followed her.
A secret meeting. At an abandoned cottage.
With her blackmailer.
He'd found a position in the shadows, close enough to respond if things went wrong. And he'd waited, watching the cottage door, barely breathing.
When Cara had finally emerged, walking toward her car, he'd felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Safe. She was safe.
Then the Mercedes engine roared.
The headlights swung toward her.
And Gabe's world had narrowed to a single, horrifying image—Cara diving sideways as two tons of metal screamed past her and slammed into the rocks.
Now he forced himself to focus. To be the cop instead of the man.
He pulled out his flashlight, leaned in to check Blaire's pulse. Steady but weak. Breathing shallow. The gash on her forehead bled freely, but head wounds always looked worse than they were.
The sirens were shriller now, the blue and red lights brighter. The first responders were less than a minute out.
Gabe straightened, swept his flashlight across the scene. No skid marks on the gravel. No indication the driver had tried to brake or turn. The car had gone straight into the rocks like Blaire had no control at all.
That was wrong.
He crouched near the front wheel, shining his light underneath the chassis.
There.
Brake fluid pooled on the gravel, dark and spreading. He traced the beam upward, following the line to where it connected near the wheel assembly.
Cut. Clean through. Deliberate.
"You see it," Wade said quietly. Not a question.
"Yeah." Gabe stood slowly. "I see it."
Someone had tampered with Blaire's car, knowing she'd try to drive away, knowing the winding coastal road would do the rest.
And Cara Sweet was standing ten feet away with blood on her face and a motive that anyone with half a brain could piece together.
Gabe looked at her. Really looked at her.
She met his eyes. Scared. Exhausted. But not guilty. He'd interrogated enough suspects to know the difference.
"I didn't do this," she said quietly. "I know how it looks, but I didn't—"
"I know."
"I was inside the cottage with her. Wade was watching. He can tell you I never went near her car."
"She didn't," Wade confirmed. "I had eyes on the parking area the whole time. Neither of us touched that vehicle."
Gabe believed them. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that he was the Police Chief of Haven Cove. And in about six minutes, an ambulance was going to arrive, followed by deputies and crime scene techs and a whole lot of questions he couldn't answer without putting Cara in the crosshairs.
She'd been at the scene. Had a known conflict with the victim. Had motive and opportunity.
Any competent investigator would look at her first.
And any competent investigation into Cara Sweet would uncover things she clearly didn't want uncovered.
What am I supposed to write in my report?
Witness arrived on scene before officers. Witness has documented conflict with victim. Witness cannot account for—
No.
He crossed to Cara, reached out, and gently tilted her chin to examine the cut on her forehead. It was shallow but still bleeding, mixed with dirt and gravel.
"You need to get this looked at," he said.
"I'm fine. It's just a scrape."
"It needs cleaning. Probably a tetanus shot." He held her gaze, willing her to understand what he wasn't saying. "You should go. Both of you. Now."
Cara's eyes widened. "Gabe, I can't let you—"
"You're not letting me do anything." His voice was firm. "You're an injured witness leaving a scene to seek medical attention. That's standard procedure."
"But your report—"
"Will note that I arrived on scene, found the victim in the vehicle, and secured the area pending emergency response." He released her chin, stepped back. "I'll need to take your statement later. Yours and Wade's both."
Wade moved to Cara's side, hand on her elbow. He understood. Gabe could see it in his eyes—the recognition of what Gabe was doing. What it could cost him.
"We'll be available," Wade said carefully.
Gabe met his eyes. "I expect I'll have trouble tracking you down for a day or two. Small town. People move around."
A beat of silence.
Wade nodded once. One professional acknowledging another.
"Come on," he said to Cara, tugging her arm. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Cara didn't move. She was staring at Gabe with something that looked like grief. Like gratitude. Like a thousand things she couldn't say.
"Gabe..."
"Go." His voice softened despite himself. "I'll handle this."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"Cara." He stepped closer, lowered his voice so only she could hear. "I know you didn't try to kill her tonight."
"How?" The word was barely a whisper. "How do you know?"
"Because I know you."
It wasn't enough. Wasn't logic or evidence or anything he could put in a report. But it was true.
Cara's eyes glistened. She opened her mouth, closed it. Then Wade was pulling her away, toward her Subaru, and she was going, looking back at Gabe one last time before the fog swallowed her.
Gabe stood alone in the parking area, the crashed Mercedes steaming behind him, sirens growing closer.
He'd just compromised an investigation to protect a woman with secrets she wouldn't share. Had put his career, his integrity, everything he'd built on the line for someone who might be exactly as guilty as she looked.
No. Not guilty of this. He was certain of that much.
But guilty of something. Something she was terrified he'd discover.
Red and blue lights flickered through the fog. The ambulance, finally arriving.
Gabe straightened his shoulders, composed his face into professional neutrality, and walked toward the approaching vehicle.
He had a crime scene to process. A victim to interview, assuming she regained consciousness. An attempted murderer to find.
And somehow, he had to do all of it without anyone looking too closely at Cara Sweet.
The ambulance doors opened. EMTs rushed toward the Mercedes with a stretcher and medical bags.
Gabe pulled out his phone, started documenting the scene. Photos of the crash. The brake line. The fluid trail.
Evidence that pointed to premeditation. To someone who'd known Blaire would be here, known when, known the car would be unattended long enough to sabotage.
Someone besides Cara.