Chapter 24
Haven Cove General Hospital was small by any standard—twenty beds, a handful of doctors, and a nursing staff that knew every patient by name.
Gabe walked through the automatic doors, badge on his belt, notebook in hand. He'd been up since five, unable to sleep, replaying the crash scene in his mind. The cut brake line. Cara's bleeding face. The decision to let her leave.
A decision that could end his career if anyone looked too closely.
He pushed the thought aside and approached the nurses' station.
A tired-looking nurse directed him to Blaire’s room with a tired smile.
"She's been awake since six. Demanding a private room, better pillows, and organic juice.
" The nurse's expression said everything her professional demeanor wouldn't allow.
"We kept her overnight to monitor the head injury, but she'll be discharged this afternoon.
Physically, she's fine. Minor concussion, facial bruising.
" The nurse handed him a clipboard to sign. "Good luck in there."
Blaire sat propped up in the hospital bed, looking significantly worse than the polished Instagram influencer he'd met at the diner.
Her face was mottled with purple and yellow bruises, butterfly bandages holding together a cut above her eyebrow.
Her perfect blonde hair was tangled, pulled back in a messy knot.
But her eyes were sharp. Calculating. Already assessing him as he entered.
"Hi, Gabe. Took you long enough."
She had no idea. If he had his way, he wouldn’t be talking to her at all. He pulled a chair closer to the bed, flipped open his notebook. "How are you feeling?"
"Like someone tried to kill me." She shifted against the pillows, wincing at the movement. "Which someone did. Have you caught them yet?"
"Working on it." He clicked his pen. "Let's start with why you were at the lighthouse cottage."
The cover story came out smooth and practiced. Genealogical research for Cara Sweet. A private meeting to discuss findings about her great-aunt Margaret. Small town, people talk, needed somewhere discreet.
Gabe wrote it down without reacting. The lie was obvious, but he let her spin it out, watching for cracks in the performance.
"And the meeting itself? How did it go?"
"Fine. We talked for about ten minutes or so. Then I left." Her composure flickered slightly. "Got in my car, started the engine, and the brakes didn't work. I pressed the pedal and nothing happened. The car just kept going."
"You didn't try to turn? Steer away from the wall?"
"I tried." Her voice tightened. "Everything happened so fast. One second I was driving, the next I was heading straight for those rocks."
When he told her the brake line had been deliberately cut, fear flickered beneath her composure. Real fear. Whatever else she was hiding, the crash had genuinely shaken her.
"I knew it," she said quietly. "Someone's been after me."
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated, and Gabe watched her calculate. He could almost see the gears turning—how much to reveal, how much to hold back. She wanted whoever did this caught, that much was clear. But she also had secrets she wasn't willing to expose, even to save her own skin.
"There have been... incidents," she said finally. "Strange things happening. I can't get into specifics, but someone's been making my life difficult lately. I thought it was just business complications. Now I'm not so sure."
Vague. Deliberately so. She was fishing for information without giving any.
"What kind of incidents?"
"The kind I'd rather not discuss with law enforcement." Her smile was thin, brittle. "No offense, Chief, but I'm sure you understand. A woman in my profession has to be careful about what she shares with police. It could compromise ongoing work."
Translation: she had plenty to hide, and she knew he knew it.
"Someone tried to kill you. If there's information that could help identify—"
"I've told you everything relevant." Her tone hardened. "I have enemies. People who don't appreciate being found. That's the nature of my work. I'll give you names of people who've made threats in the past, but I'm not opening my entire client list to police scrutiny."
She met his eyes, and he saw the calculation there. She didn't trust him. Didn't like him. And she certainly wasn't going to hand over anything that might invite questions about her methods.
He pressed for names anyway—anyone who might hold a grudge.
Sighing deeply, she reached for her phone, reading off a short list, some offered freely, others glossed over with vague mentions of "misunderstandings" and "difficult situations.
" Former clients who'd disputed fees. Subjects of investigations who'd made threats.
People whose lives had clearly intersected with hers in ways she refused to explain.
Gabe wrote them all down. He'd cross-reference later, see which ones had the means and opportunity to be in Haven Cove last night.
"What about Cara Sweet?" he asked, keeping his voice casual.
Blaire's eyes sharpened. Wariness and something else flickered there—interest, maybe. Like she was curious how much he already knew.
"What about her?"
"She was at the scene. Could she have tampered with your car?"
"Cara?" A short laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes. "She was inside with me the entire time. She couldn't have done it." Blaire paused, choosing her next words carefully. "No way. She doesn't have the... skill set."
Clearly, Blaire didn’t know Cara like he did. Not that he suspected her. But yeah, she had the skill set. Just not the lack of morals.
He closed his notebook and stood. "I'll be in touch if I have more questions. Don't leave town."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Her smile was cold. "I want whoever did this caught, Chief. Even if you don't believe that."
At the door, her voice stopped him.
"Gabe?"
He turned.
She studied him for a long moment, that calculating look back in her swollen eyes. He could see her weighing options, deciding how much to risk.
"Cara," she said finally. "You two seem... close."
"Is that a question?"
"An observation." She tilted her head, wincing slightly at the movement. "I saw the way you looked at her at the crash site. Very protective. Very... personal."
Gabe kept his expression neutral, but his gut tightened. She was probing. Looking for leverage.
"Ms. Sweet is a member of this community. I'd respond the same way to any citizen in distress."
"Right." Her smile sharpened. "I'm just saying... be careful. People aren't always what they seem. Especially people with secrets."
"Is there something specific you want to tell me about Miss Sweet?"
The question hung between them. He watched her calculate again—the risk of saying too much versus the opportunity to plant suspicion.
"Nothing specific," she said finally. "Just friendly advice from someone who finds people for a living. Little Miss Sweet is hiding something big." She shrugged, then winced again. "But you already know that. The question is whether you care more about the truth or about protecting her."
She let that land, then waved a dismissive hand. "That's all, Chief. I'm tired. The pain medication is making me fuzzy."
It wasn't. Her eyes were sharp as ever. But the conversation was over, and they both knew it.
Gabe left without another word. Cara would be at his office soon.
Another interview he wasn’t looking forward to.
Cara arrived at his office at ten o'clock exactly.
The cut on her forehead had been cleaned and bandaged, and she'd clearly managed some sleep. But the shadows under her eyes told a different story. So did the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she moved as she sat across from his desk.
"Thanks for coming in," he said. "I need your formal statement about last night."
"Of course."
He walked her through the basics. Time of arrival at the cottage. The meeting itself. The car accelerating toward her, the crash, calling 911. She answered each question carefully, her voice wavering only when she described diving out of the way, hearing Blaire scream.
That part, at least, was true. He'd watched it happen from the shadows.
He already knew about the blackmail—had pieced together enough to understand that Blaire was squeezing Cara over the inheritance of the bakery. What he didn't know was why Cara was in this position in the first place. And how much of that had Blaire figured out?
What Cara was hiding that made her vulnerable to someone like Blaire Mitchell?
And that was the question he couldn't ask. Not directly. Not without forcing her to lie to his face, again, or admit to something that might destroy her.
He set down his pen, met her eyes. "I can imagine why you met her at the cottage, you don’t need to give me any details.
" He kept his voice gentle but firm. "What I need to know is whether any of that—whatever she has on you, whatever she's been threatening—could be connected to someone wanting her dead. "
Cara's hands tightened in her lap. He watched her struggle with it—the desire to tell him warring with the fear of what that truth might cost.
"I don't know who cut her brakes," she said finally. "I don't know who would want to kill her. But..." She hesitated. "Blaire has made a lot of enemies. People she's found. People she's... leveraged. I'm not the only one."
"Do you have names?"
"No. Just what she's implied." Cara looked down at her hands. "She's been doing this for a long time, Gabe. To a lot of people. Any one of them might have snapped."
It wasn't much. But it was more than she'd given him before.
"Anything else you want to tell me?" he asked quietly.
The question hung between them. He was giving her an opening. A chance to trust him with whatever secret was eating her alive.
She shook her head. "That's everything I know. I'm sorry it's not more helpful."
Gabe held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded and closed his notebook. "If you think of anything else, you know where to find me."
"I do."
She stood to leave. At the door, she paused, looked back. Something painful moved through her expression.
"Gabe... thank you. For last night. For everything."
Then she was gone, and he was alone with his notes.
His desk phone rang fifteen minutes later.
"Chief? It’s Torres. I've been canvassing like you asked, talking to locals about any unusual activity yesterday. Pearl Henderson flagged me down about an hour ago."
Gabe straightened. Pearl Henderson noticed everything that happened in Haven Cove—and plenty that didn't. If there was something to see, Pearl had seen it.
"What did she have?"
"Unfamiliar car yesterday evening, parked near the turnoff to the coastal road. Rental plates, she's pretty sure. White male driving alone, maybe forties, dark hair. She said he looked 'shifty'—her word. Seemed nervous when she drove past. Wouldn't make eye contact."
"What time?"
"Around six-thirty, she thinks. Maybe closer to seven."
An hour or more before the meeting at the cottage. Plenty of time to cut a brake line and disappear before anyone else arrived.
"Good work. Anything else?"
"I checked with the Haven Cove Inn like you suggested.
They've got an out-of-state guest who matches the general description.
Checked in three days ago. Drives a rental car.
" Ellie paused. "Registered as Michael Thorne.
California driver's license. But the address listed is just a P.O. box. Something about it feels off."
A fake name, maybe. Or someone who had reasons not to want his real address on file.
"Don't approach him yet," Gabe said. "I want to dig deeper first. Run the name through the system, see what comes back."
"Copy that, Chief." She hung up.
Could be coincidence. Tourists passed through Haven Cove all the time.
Or this Thorne could be their guy.
Either way, it was the first solid lead they had. And Gabe intended to follow it wherever it went.
Even if—especially if—it led away from Cara Sweet.