Chapter 33
Gabe pushed the SUV past the speed limit on the coastal road, gravel spraying as he took the curves too fast. He debated spinning up the red and blues, but traffic was light. And he didn’t want to alert Thorne.
"Cutter's Point," Ellie had said. "Old fishing shack about a quarter mile off the main road. His rental's tucked behind it. Plate matches."
She'd found him. Methodical, patient Ellie had done exactly what she’d been trained to do. While he'd been chasing his own tail between Cara and Blaire, Ellie had been working the case.
The turnoff appeared, barely visible—a gap in the scrub brush that most people would drive right past. Gabe killed the engine and coasted the last hundred yards, stopping behind Ellie's cruiser.
She was waiting outside, weapon drawn but pointed at the ground.
"He's still inside," she said quietly as Gabe approached. "Hasn't moved in twenty minutes. I can see him through the window—just sitting there. Staring at nothing."
"Armed?"
"Didn't see a weapon. But I haven't approached."
Gabe studied the shack. Weathered boards, rusted tin roof, the kind of place fishermen used to store gear before the industry moved south. Now it was just another forgotten structure slowly returning to the earth.
A single light glowed inside. Through the grimy window, he could make out a figure hunched at a table.
He glanced down at his jeans and henley. No vest, no uniform. He'd rushed straight from the diner without thinking. Rookie mistake.
"I'll take the front. You cover the back in case he runs." He drew his off-duty weapon from his ankle holster. "And Ellie? If this goes sideways, you call for backup before you come in. Understood?"
She looked like she wanted to argue, but nodded and melted into the darkness, circling wide.
Gabe approached the door, hyper-aware of how exposed he was. No vest. No backup closer than twenty minutes. Just him and a desperate man who'd already tried to kill once.
He knocked. Hard. "Michael Thorne. Haven Cove Police. Open the door."
Silence. Then shuffling. The creak of a chair.
The door swung open.
Thorne looked like a man who hadn't slept in days. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes, stubble that had crossed the line into beard territory, clothes wrinkled and stained. He blinked at Gabe like someone waking from a nightmare.
"I wondered how long it would take." His voice was flat. Exhausted.
"Hands where I can see them. Step outside."
Thorne complied without resistance. Raised his hands slowly, shuffled onto the small porch, stood there swaying slightly in the salt wind.
No fight. No flight. Just... surrender.
"Michael Thorne, you're under arrest for assault." Gabe holstered his weapon long enough to cuff him, reciting Miranda rights on autopilot. "You have the right to remain silent..."
Thorne laughed. It was a broken sound, more sob than humor. "I've been silent for years. Lot of good it did me."
Ellie appeared from the side of the shack, weapon lowered. Her eyes met Gabe's—you okay?—and he nodded.
"Get him in my vehicle. I want to look around before we go."
The shack's interior was sparse. A cot with tangled blankets. A hot plate and some canned food. The table Thorne had been sitting at, covered with papers and a laptop that looked like it had seen better days.
Gabe pulled on gloves and flipped through the papers. Printouts of Blaire Mitchell's Instagram posts. Maps of Haven Cove with locations circled—the inn, the hardware store, the coastal road where her brakes had failed. Notes in cramped handwriting, some of it barely legible.
She's here. Finally. End this.
Bakery? Connection to target?
Parking lot. 8 PM. Alone.
He'd been watching. Planning. Waiting for his moment.
And he'd gotten the wrong woman.
Gabe photographed everything, then bagged the laptop and papers as evidence. Whatever story Thorne had to tell, it was all here. Years of fury and fear, condensed into surveillance notes and desperate scrawl.
Back at the truck, Thorne sat in the back seat, cuffed and quiet. Ellie was leaning against the hood, arms crossed.
"He say anything?"
"Not much. Asked if Blaire was dead." She paused. "Seemed disappointed when I said no."
Gabe climbed into the driver's seat. The ride back to the station was silent except for the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional crackle of the radio.
At the station, they processed Thorne—fingerprints, photographs, the whole routine—and put him in the single holding cell Haven Cove PD had. He sat on the metal bench like a man who'd forgotten how to stand.
"I want to talk to him," Gabe told Ellie. "You can watch from observation if you want."
"Wouldn't miss it."
The interrogation room was barely bigger than a closet—a table, two chairs, a camera in the corner that was probably older than Ellie. Gabe sat across from Thorne and waited.
Sometimes silence was the best interrogation technique. Let them fill the void with whatever was eating them alive.
It took about two minutes.
"I built it for her." Thorne's voice was barely above a whisper. "Huntress. That's what she called it. A tracking system. Research aggregation, pattern recognition, social media scraping. I was proud of it, at first. Thought I was helping people find lost family members."
He laughed again, that same broken sound. "I was so stupid."
"What happened?"
"She found something. About me." Thorne's hands trembled on the table. "Something I did a long time ago. Before I got clean and turned my life around. She's been holding it over me ever since."
"And then?"
He swallowed hard. "I got a message. Anonymous. Said Blaire was in Haven Cove, that she was in trouble with law enforcement. That she might turn on me to save herself."
Gabe leaned forward. "Who sent the message?"
"I don't know. Burner email, couldn't trace it. But they knew things. Her schedule, her habits, where she'd be vulnerable." Thorne met his eyes for the first time.
"So you came to kill her."
"No! I just wanted to scare her into leaving me alone. I came to be free." Thorne's voice cracked. "When I got that message, I thought—maybe this is my chance."
"But you attacked the wrong woman."
Thorne’s head snapped back. "What? I followed her to that parking lot. Waited while she talked to that other….” He stopped, his face deathly pale. “You’re kidding me? That wasn’t––“ He buried his face in his hands. “No way,” he whispered. “No way.”
"You almost killed an innocent woman."
"I can’t believe it." The words came out strangled. "That guy ran up before I could tell Blaire…or whoever…it was me. I was kind of glad, actually. When I got my hands around her neck––” He exhaled, a deep, shuddering breath. “Anyway, I guess I was way madder than I figured. I just kept squeezing. I couldn’t stop.”
He stared down at his hands. “I've been sitting in that shack for two days trying to figure out how everything went so wrong. I'm not—I'm not a killer. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I just wanted to be free. To scare her into leaving me alone."
Gabe let the silence stretch, then leaned forward. "What about her brake lines? Someone cut them two days ago. Nearly killed her."
Thorne blinked. "Brake lines?"
"Don't play dumb. You came here to take her out. The brakes failed, so you tried again in the parking lot."
"No." Thorne shook his head, agitation creeping into his voice. "No, that wasn't me. I only got to Haven Cove yesterday. I didn't—I wouldn't even know how to cut brake lines."
"You built a sophisticated surveillance system. I think you could it out."
"Software is different than cars." Thorne's hands were trembling again. "I'm telling you, it wasn't me. I only tried once. Last night. And I told you. I didn’t plan to kill her.”
"We'll be checking your story," Gabe said flatly. "Receipts. Gas station cameras. Hotel records. If you were anywhere near Haven Cove two days ago—"
"I wasn't. I swear." Thorne leaned forward, almost pleading. "Check whatever you want. I was still in Portland. I have receipts, timestamps, everything. I didn't cut anyone's brake lines."
Gabe studied him. The desperation. The trembling hands. Either Thorne was telling the truth, or he was smart enough to know that premeditated attempted murder looked a lot worse than a sloppy assault gone wrong.
Gabe sat back, processing. Thorne was pathetic. Desperate. Broken by years of Blaire's manipulation. But he'd also choked Cara.
"The person who sent you that tip," Gabe said slowly. "You said they knew things only someone close to Blaire would know."
Thorne nodded.
Gabe turned that over in his mind. "Someone close to her. Someone who wanted her hurt—or dead-- badly enough to point you in Blaire’s direction.”
"I guess I was the weapon," Thorne said bitterly. "And I missed."
Gabe stood. "We're booking you on assault charges. A lawyer will be appointed if you can't afford one. I suggest you cooperate fully—it's the only thing that might help you at this point."
"Chief." Thorne's voice stopped him at the door. "Whoever sent that message... they're still out there. They wanted Blaire taken out. They're not going to stop just because I failed."
Gabe met his eyes. "I know."
He left Thorne in the holding cell and found Ellie waiting in the hallway, arms crossed, expression thoughtful.
"Someone set him up," she said. Not a question.
"Looks like it. Anonymous tip, just enough information to point him at Blaire and wind him up like a weapon."
"What about the brake lines? He cop to that?"
"Claims he wasn't in town yet. Says he only got here yesterday."
Ellie raised an eyebrow. "You buying that?"
"I don't know." Gabe leaned against the wall, exhaustion pressing down on him. "He was pretty convincing. Offered to prove it—receipts, gas station footage. But..."
Ellie shrugged. "He's been trapped by a professional blackmailer for years. Maybe he's picked up some acting skills."
"Maybe." Gabe didn't sound convinced, even to himself. "We'll verify his timeline. Pull the gas station footage, check his receipts. If he was in Portland when those brakes got cut, we'll know."
"And if his alibi holds?"
Gabe met her eyes. They both knew what that meant. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Thorne's our guy for the assault. The brake lines..." He shook his head. "We verify first, theorize later."
"Fair enough." Ellie glanced toward the holding cell. "But if there is someone else, that's a whole different level of planning. That's not desperate. That's patience."
"Yup."
Ellie was quiet for a moment. “I’m on the clock until 1800. You want me to watch the Mitchell woman? I can arrange for Cho to relieve me.”
Gabe glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost 1600.
"Belay that. We don’t have the resources to provide a protection detail. Blaire Mitchell’s got enough money to run as far and as fast as she wants to. Get started on your report while everything's fresh. I want the arrest documented before you leave tonight."
"What about Mitchell? She should know Thorne’s in custody, and whoever teased him to come out here isn’t."
"I'll go," he said. "I’m the chief."
Ellie smiled wryly. Gabe couldn’t help but notice she looked relieved. “Guess that’s why you make the big bucks.”
He grunted. As if.