Chapter 25
Cara had been awake since four. She'd baked anyway — it was the only thing that had ever reliably quieted her brain — and now at eleven forty-five she stood at the top of the basement stairs watching Diane handle the lunch rush with the easy confidence she'd had since day one.
Like the bakery had always been half hers. Like everything was completely normal.
Nothing was completely normal.
Diane looked up and spotted her. "There you are. I heard about the crash last night." Her brow creased with concern. "Are you okay? Really okay?"
"A few scrapes. Nothing serious."
"You should be resting, not hovering." Diane gestured toward the display cases. "I've got this handled. The lunch special is moving fast—we're almost out of the turkey cranberry."
"I can see that." The cases were half-empty already. A good problem to have. "You're amazing, you know that?"
"I know." Diane's smile softened the words. "Now go do whatever you need to do. I'll hold down the fort."
The bell above the door chimed, and Wade walked in. His gaze swept the room—automatic threat assessment—before landing on Cara. He gave a small nod.
"Wade." Diane's voice carried warmth. "You look like you haven't eaten today."
"I'm fine."
"Uh-huh." She was already reaching for the pastry case. "Ham and cheese croissant. Fresh out of the oven twenty minutes ago."
Wade opened his mouth to protest, but Diane had already bagged it and thrust it into his hands.
"On the house. You're too skinny."
Wade stared at the bag like he wasn't sure what to do with it. "I'm not—"
"Eat it. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"I'm a mother of three grown sons. Close enough." Diane turned back to the register where a customer was waiting. "Now shoo, both of you. I've got work to do."
Wade mumbled something that might have been thanks and headed for the basement stairs. Cara followed, hiding a smile.
At the counter, a woman with dark hair and paint-stained jeans was studying the pastry case. The artist who'd been coming in regularly for the past week—Cara had seen her sketching in the corner booth most mornings.
"The almond croissants are incredible," the woman said, glancing up with a friendly smile. "I've had three this week. Possibly four. I've lost count."
"They're a customer favorite." Cara paused, feeling like she should make conversation. "Are you visiting Haven Cove long?"
"I’m leaving soon, actually." Something flickered in the woman's expression—sadness, maybe. Or exhaustion. "Back to real life. But I'll miss this place. The morning light here is perfect for painting. I’ll be back."
"Well, we'll miss having you."
"Thanks." The woman turned back to the case. "One more almond croissant for the road. And a large coffee."
Cara left Diane to handle the order and followed Wade down the stairs.
Just another tourist. Haven Cove got plenty of them—artists and writers and city people looking for somewhere quiet to think. This one would leave tomorrow and Cara would probably never see her again.
She had bigger things to worry about.
The basement was already full when she arrived.
Tom sat hunched over his workstation, multiple monitors glowing with data. Reagan leaned against the wall, coffee in hand, dark circles under her eyes. Piper was cross-legged on her bean bag, laptop balanced on her knees.
Wade had already unwrapped his croissant and was eating it with the focused intensity he brought to everything.
"How's Blaire?" Cara asked, settling into a chair.
"Still at the inn. Discharged from the hospital this morning." Tom didn't look up from his screens.
"Panicking?"
"Oh yeah." Tom's smile was grim. "We've been hitting her from multiple angles. Fake threats, tech glitches, a copycat blackmailer who contacted three of her past clients claiming to have taken over her operation."
"Copycat blackmailer?" Cara raised an eyebrow.
"My idea." Piper looked up from her laptop. "If someone else is claiming to run her business, she can't trust anyone. Doesn't know who's real and who's fake."
Cara’s jaw dropped. “That’s brilliant!”
Piper’s thin shoulder rose in acknowledgement. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Wade shook his head, chewing on a bit of croissant. “More like terrifying,” he said after he swallowed.
Tom snorted from the back corner. “Tell me.”
"It's working," Reagan added. "Blaire’s been trying to verify the copycat. Can't figure out if it's a real threat or a hoax."
"Meanwhile," Tom continued, "her email's been acting up. Messages disappearing. Attachments corrupting. Nothing she can prove is sabotage, but enough to make her paranoid."
Cara felt a twinge of something that might have been guilt. They were systematically dismantling Blaire's sense of security, making her question everything. It was exactly what Blaire had done to her victims for years.
The irony wasn't lost on her.
Cara's phone buzzed.
Everyone turned to look at her.
She pulled it out, read the message, and felt the blood drain from her face.
"Cara?" Reagan moved closer. "What is it?"
Cara turned the phone so they could all see.
I know someone's playing games with me, Cara. The FBI investigation was FAKE. Someone's been harassing me, cutting my brakes, trying to destroy my business. And you're the only one within a hundred miles with a reason to do all of that.
I don't know how you're doing it. I don't know who's helping you. But I'm done being patient.
I want my money. TWO DAYS. You get me $50,000 in cash, or I burn your life to the ground. I'll post everything I have on you. Every document. Every inconsistency. Every lie. My followers will tear your fake identity apart in hours.
And then I'll go to your precious police chief and tell him exactly what I found. Let's see how protective he is when he knows the truth.
Don't test me. Don't stall. Don't play any more games.
--B
No emojis this time. No fake sweetness. Just cold, brutal threat.
Cara stared at the message, her hands trembling.
Their grand plans had backfired.
Cara looked around the room at her team. At the people who'd risked everything to help her. Who'd broken laws and crossed lines and asked for nothing in return except that she trust them.
"We need a new plan," she said quietly. "Something faster. Something that ends this for good."
"What did you have in mind?" Reagan asked.
"She's terrified of whoever cut her brake lines," Cara said slowly. "She doesn't know if it's connected to the fake FBI investigation or something else entirely."
Reagan scrunched up her nose. "So?"
"So maybe we use that." Cara met Reagan's eyes. "Maybe we give her a way out. A deal that protects both of us."
"You want to negotiate with her?" Wade's voice was skeptical.
"I want to get inside her operation." Cara took a breath. "Before the attack, she offered me a deal. I think it’s time to take her up on it."
Her phone buzzed again.
Another message from Blaire.
And Cara? Don't even think about running. I've got eyes on you.
Clock's ticking.
Cara set down the phone.
Ready or not, the endgame was here.