Chapter 35
The bakery basement had never felt so small.
Cara sat at the table, phone in front of her, watching the minutes tick by on the screen.
Around her, the team waited. Tom hunched over his laptop, refreshing Blaire's Instagram feed every thirty seconds like it might change something.
Reagan stood by the stairs, arms crossed, watching everyone with that quiet alertness she brought to everything.
Wade sat in the corner, cleaning a knife he'd already cleaned twice, the repetitive motion the only sign of his nerves.
And Piper. Tom had tried to send her home, but she'd refused.
"I'm part of this team," she'd said, jaw set in a way that reminded Cara painfully of her father. "I'm not going to hide upstairs while you all wait for the bomb to drop."
Tom had looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he'd just nodded and pulled up a chair for her.
Now Piper sat cross-legged on the floor, her own phone out, scrolling through Blaire's social media history like she might find some clue everyone else had missed. The determination on her young face made Cara's chest ache.
These people. This family she'd stumbled into. They were all here, waiting with her, even though there was nothing any of them could do.
Her phone buzzed. Gabe's text from earlier, the one she'd been reading and rereading all evening:
Thorne's in custody. Confessed to the assault but denies the brake lines—claims he wasn't in town yet. We're verifying. I went to warn Blaire in person. She's packing, planning to leave tomorrow. She mentioned your midnight deadline. I'm sorry, Cara. I tried.
She'd typed and deleted a dozen responses. What was there to say? Thanks for trying? It doesn't matter? By tomorrow you'll know everything anyway?
In the end, she'd just sent back: Thank you.
Two words. Completely inadequate.
"Does Thorne being arrested change anything?" Piper asked quietly, breaking the silence.
Tom shook his head. "She's still got her files. Still got her deadline. Thorne was just collateral chaos. He was never the real threat."
"Blaire's the real threat," Reagan said.
"I still think we should melt her hard drives," Piper muttered, scrolling viciously through Blaire's feed. "And maybe her face."
"Piper." Tom's voice held a warning.
"What? I'm just saying. She's got like forty-seven thousand followers and all she posts is fake smiles and ruined lives. Someone should—"
"Someone should let the justice system handle it," Tom said firmly.
Piper snorted. "Yeah, because that's worked out great so far."
Tom opened his mouth to respond, but Reagan crossed the room and squeezed his shoulder. A gentle pressure, there and gone. Let it go. She's scared.
Tom exhaled slowly and turned back to his laptop.
The waiting was the worst part.
Forty-five minutes to go: Tom refreshed Instagram. Nothing new.
"You know what kills me?" Piper said suddenly.
"Her captions. 'Living my best life.' 'Grateful for this journey.
' Meanwhile she's literally destroying people for money.
" She held up her phone, showing an old post—Blaire beaming in front of a sunset, champagne glass raised.
"This one's from three days after she started blackmailing that guy in Seattle. The one whose wife left him."
"Piper," Tom said again, quieter this time.
"I'm just saying. She's a monster. And she gets to pretend she's some kind of... life coach."
No one argued with her.
Half an hour: Cara reorganized the supply shelf for the third time, then wiped down the table that was already clean before she folded and refolded the same dishtowel over and over, until Reagan gently took it from her hands.
"I could write a worm," Tom said quietly, almost to himself. "Something that would find every copy of her files and corrupt them. Every backup, every cloud server, every—"
"Tom." Reagan's hand found his shoulder again. "We talked about this."
"I know. I know." He rubbed his eyes. "It's just hard to sit here and do nothing."
"We're not doing nothing. We're being here." Reagan's voice was gentle but firm. "Sometimes that's all you can do."
Fifteen minutes: Wade stopped cleaning his knife and just held it, staring at nothing.
"Whatever happens," he said, not looking at anyone, "we handle it together. That's what teams do."
Cara's throat tightened. "Wade—"
"I mean it." He finally looked up, met her eyes. "Whatever comes out at midnight—whoever you were before Haven Cove—it doesn't change who you are now. Not to us."
Piper nodded fiercely. "What he said."
Tom and Reagan murmured agreement.
Cara couldn't speak. Could barely breathe around the pressure in her chest.
Piper's leg bounced against the floor, a nervous rhythm she couldn't seem to stop.
Cara's heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
Everyone's phones were out. Watching. Waiting.
Midnight.
Cara held her breath.
Nothing.
She refreshed her email. Empty. Refreshed Instagram. Blaire's last post was from yesterday morning—a sunset photo with some inspirational quote about "finding your truth."
12:05. Still nothing.
"Maybe she's building suspense," Piper offered, but her voice was uncertain.
12:10. Tom refreshed the feed again. "No new posts. No stories. Nothing."
"Check if Gabe got anything," Wade said. "She said she'd send him everything."
Cara's fingers trembled as she typed out the text. Did you get anything from Blaire?
The response came thirty seconds later. No. Nothing. You?
Nothing.
A pause. Then: That's strange.
Strange. That was one word for it.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"Maybe she fell asleep?" Reagan said, but even she didn't sound like she believed it.
Wade snorted. "We could be so lucky." He set the knife aside.
"Maybe she changed her mind?" Piper's voice was hopeful.
"Women like Blaire don't change their minds." Tom closed his laptop with a soft click. "They adapt. They pivot. But they don't back down."
Cara's gut churned. Something was wrong. This wasn't like Blaire—not the Blaire who'd called her that morning with ice in her voice and murder in her words. That Blaire had been hungry for this. Eager. She'd wanted to watch Cara burn.
So where was she?
An hour later, Reagan jumped up. "I’m officially calling this. We should get some sleep. Whatever's happening, we can't figure it out tonight. We'll know more in the morning."
The team dispersed slowly. Tom took Piper upstairs, his hand on her shoulder, murmuring something about school tomorrow. Wade caught Cara's eye, nodded once—I'm here if you need me—and followed Reagan up the stairs.
Then Cara was alone.
She sat in the basement for a long time, staring at her phone, waiting for the notification that would end everything.
It never came.
Eventually, she climbed the stairs to her apartment, moving like a woman walking through water. She didn't bother undressing. Just lay down on top of the covers, still in her jeans and sweater, and stared at the ceiling.
Blaire's deadline had come and gone. And nothing had happened.
She should feel relieved. She didn't.
She felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble beneath her feet.