Chapter 37
Cara was setting a filter in the coffee machine when the bell above the basement door chimed.
She turned.
Wade came through first, just Wade, no preamble, no explanation.
Reagan followed, already dressed, already alert in that unnerving way of hers.
Then Tom, laptop bag over his shoulder, and Piper—who should have been heading for homeroom—clutching her own laptop to her chest like she'd walked out the door with it mid-thought and never stopped moving.
They filed into the kitchen without being asked.
Wade moved past her toward the coffee station like he'd done it a hundred times. He pulled four mugs off the shelf, poured without asking. "We said we'd be here. So we're here."
Reagan found the stool Tom was already reaching for, yielded it without comment, and leaned against the counter instead. Piper hopped up beside the cooling rack, legs dangling, laptop already open on her knees.
"There's nothing—" Cara stopped. Tried again. "There's nothing left to do. We've been through everything."
"We know." Reagan slid a mug across the counter toward her. "We're still here."
Nobody pretended it was fine. Nobody offered false reassurance or another angle they hadn't already tried. They just arranged themselves around her kitchen the way people arrange themselves around someone waiting for bad news—not to fix it, just to make sure she wasn't waiting alone.
Cara wrapped both hands around the mug.
The ovens hummed. The timers ticked. Outside, Haven Cove was still dark and quiet, the ocean invisible behind the fog.
She looked at these four people who had walked into her borrowed life and made it real, and felt something crack open behind her sternum.
"I don't know how to do this part," she admitted. "I know how to run. I know how to fight back. I don't know how to just... wait."
"Nobody does." Tom didn't look up from his screen. "That's why you make good coffee."
Piper reached over and stole a cardamom bun off the nearest cooling rack. "These are still warm. You've been here a while."
"Since four."
"Four." Reagan looked at her steadily. "Cara."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Obviously." But Reagan's voice was gentle. "Eat something."
The back door opened and Diane appeared, unwinding her scarf, already scanning the kitchen with that efficient morning-shift gaze. She took in the four extra people, the depleted coffee station, Piper perched on the prep counter eating a cardamom bun at six in the morning, and didn't miss a beat.
"I've got the front." She hung up her coat and reached for her apron. "You all look like you need somewhere to be that isn't my kitchen."
Wade was already moving toward the basement stairs. Tom tucked his laptop under his arm. Reagan collected the mugs, topped them off, distributed them without being asked.
Cara caught Diane's eye. "Thank you."
"Go." Diane's voice was matter-of-fact, but her expression wasn't. "I'll come get you if anything comes up."
The basement felt like a tomb.
Cara sat at the table, third cup of coffee growing cold in front of her, watching the others exist in various states of exhaustion.
Tom had his laptop open but wasn't typing—just staring at the screen like it might offer answers.
Reagan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed.
Not sleeping. Just waiting. Wade sat in the corner, perfectly still.
And Piper, cross-legged on the floor, still scrolling through Blaire's Instagram with the obsessive focus of someone who refused to give up.
"She hasn't posted since yesterday morning," Piper said, breaking the silence. "She posts like five times a day. This isn't normal."
"Maybe she's planning something bigger," Tom said without conviction. "Drawing it out. Making Cara sweat."
"Or maybe she's just sleeping in," Reagan offered. "Even predators need rest."
Nobody believed it. The tension in the room was thick enough to taste.
Cara checked her phone for the hundredth time. No emails. No texts. No Instagram notifications. Just silence where destruction should have been.
The entrance bell upstairs chimed. Footsteps crossed the bakery floor—Diane's sensible shoes, then heavier treads behind them.
"Cara?" Diane's voice floated down the stairs. "Chief Sawyer's here. Says he needs to see you."
Cara's stomach dropped. She exchanged glances with the team, saw her own fear reflected back at her, and climbed the stairs.
Gabe stood just inside the bakery door, still in his uniform, hat in his hands. His face told her everything before he opened his mouth.
Something was very wrong.
"Gabe?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "What is it?"
He glanced at Diane, then back at Cara. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just us?"
She almost said yes. Almost led him upstairs to the apartment, away from the basement, away from the team that wasn't supposed to be here at eight-thirty in the morning.
But the door at the back of the kitchen was slightly ajar, and she could see the faint glow from Tom's monitors bleeding under it.
They'd hear everything anyway.
"You might as well tell us all." She paused, something cold settling in her chest. Whatever he had to say, she didn't want to hear it alone. "Come on."
She led him through the kitchen. Diane's eyes followed them without comment, and Cara heard the quiet click of the front counter's cash drawer—Diane giving them privacy the only way she could.
Cara pushed open the basement door.
The team looked up. Tom's hands went still on his keyboard. Reagan straightened off the wall. Wade rose from his corner in that unhurried way of his that somehow conveyed complete readiness. Piper, still cross-legged on the floor with her laptop, looked from Cara to Gabe and back again.
Gabe stopped on the third step.
He took in the scene—the monitors, the coffee thermoses, the four people who clearly hadn't gone home—and something shifted in his expression. Not surprise, exactly. More like a man recalculating.
"You've all been here all night," he said. Not a question.
"Most of it, then back early is all," Wade said. His voice was level. "Chief."
Gabe came the rest of the way down the stairs. He didn't sit. Just stood in the middle of the room, hat still in his hands, and looked at Cara with the kind of steadiness that meant he was bracing her for impact.
"Tell me," she urged.
"Blaire Mitchell is dead."
The words landed like stones in still water.
Cara heard someone inhale sharply—Reagan, maybe. Or maybe it was her own breath catching in her throat.
"The body was found at the Haven Cove cliffs this morning," Gabe continued. "Hiker spotted her at first light. Looks like she fell from the overlook sometime last night."
Silence.
Cara's mind raced through a cascade of reactions she couldn't control. Relief—horrible, shameful relief—flooded through her first. The midnight deadline that never came... it would never come now.
Then guilt crashed over her like a wave. A woman was dead. A human being, however terrible, had lost her life. And Cara's first reaction was gratitude.
Then fear. Cold, sharp fear.
No way she could believe this was an accident. Who killed her? And would they think it was Cara?
She must have swayed, because suddenly Wade was there, steadying her elbow, guiding her into a chair. Reagan appeared on her other side, crouching down to meet her eyes.
"Breathe," Reagan said quietly. "Just breathe."
"I feel—" Cara's voice broke. "I'm relieved. She's dead and I'm relieved. What kind of person does that make me?"
"Human," Gabe said. “Simple as that.”
"She was going to destroy me. And now she's gone and I—" Cara pressed her hand to her mouth, tears burning behind her eyes.
Tom moved closer, and Piper followed. The team circled around her, a protective wall of presence and warmth.
"Can we pray?" Reagan asked softly.
Cara nodded, not trusting her voice.
Reagan bowed her head, and the others followed. Even Gabe, still standing by the stairs, lowered his chin.
"Lord, we're struggling. We're feeling things we don't know how to feel—relief and guilt and fear all tangled together.
A woman is dead, and even though she meant us harm, we know her life had value to You.
" Reagan's voice was steady, grounding. "We ask for Your wisdom in the days ahead.
Protect Cara. Protect all of us. Help us find the truth, and help us trust You with the things we can't control. Amen."
"Amen," the others murmured.
Cara exhaled slowly, some of the tightness in her chest easing. Not gone, but lighter. Bearable.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Reagan squeezed her hand and stood.
"I need to know where all of you were last night," Gabe said. His voice was professional, but his eyes found Cara's and held them. "Between nine PM and midnight."
"Here." Tom's voice was flat. "We were all here. Waiting for Blaire to follow through on her threat."
"All of you? The whole time?"
"The whole time." Reagan stepped forward. "We were in this basement until after one in the morning. Waiting for the bomb to drop."
"It never did," Piper added quietly. "We couldn't figure out why."
Gabe nodded slowly, and Cara saw something ease in his shoulders. Relief. He'd been worried about her alibi, and now he had it—multiple witnesses, all corroborating.
"I'm going to need official statements from each of you," he said. "But that can wait until later today."
"Gabe." Cara's voice cracked. "What happened to her? You said she fell—was it an accident?"
He hesitated. That hesitation told her everything.
"We don't know yet. State police are taking over the investigation. Tyler Price—he's a friend of mine. Good cop. Thorough." He paused. "I have to tell him about the blackmail situation, Cara. About the threat she made against you."
Cara's blood went cold. "Gabe—"
"I have to," he repeated, and there was pain in his voice.
"If I don't, and it comes out later, it compromises everything.
The investigation, and any case against whoever actually did this.
" He held her gaze. "But I'm also going to tell him you have alibi witnesses.
Multiple people who can confirm you were here when she died. "
"You believe her?" Wade's voice was sharp. "Just like that?"
"I believe all of you." Gabe looked around the room. "I saw Cara through the bakery window at five-forty-five this morning. She looked like she hadn't slept all night. Because she hadn't—she was here, with you, waiting for something that never happened."
The tension in the room shifted. Not gone, but different. An acknowledgment that Gabe was trying to protect them, even while doing his job.
"There's something else," Piper said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at her. She was staring at her phone, brow furrowed. "I've been going through Blaire's posts. Like, obsessively. And there's something weird."
"Weird how?" Tom moved toward her.
"The writing style changes at times. I was so mad before, I didn’t see it.
Some posts use tons of emojis, others barely any.
And the posting times are inconsistent—sometimes she posts at six AM, sometimes at midnight, but the patterns don't match up.
And the captions..." Piper scrolled, frowning.
"Some of them sound like her. That fake-bright influencer voice. But others are more... I don’t know… . Professional, maybe?"
"Like two different people were writing them," Cara said slowly.
"Or at least editing." Piper looked up. "It's like she had someone else running her account. At least part of the time."
"An assistant," Tom said. "That would make sense. Someone to handle the day-to-day posting while she focused on the blackmail operation."
Gabe was watching them with an expression Cara couldn't quite read. "You think this assistant might be relevant?"
"I don't know." Piper shrugged. "But if Blaire had someone that close to her operation, someone with access to her accounts, her files..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Someone close enough to know everything. Someone who might have their own reasons to want Blaire dead.
"I need to head back to the crime scene to meet Tyler," Gabe said. "Walk him through what we know. But I wanted you to hear it from me first." His eyes found Cara's again. "I'm doing this by the book. It's the only way to protect you in the long run."
"I know." Cara's voice was barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
He nodded once, then turned and climbed the stairs. The basement door closed behind him, and the team stood in silence.
Tom was the first to move. He opened his laptop, fingers already flying across the keyboard. "Piper, send me everything you have on those posting patterns. I want to dig deeper into this assistant angle."
"On it." Piper was already tapping at her phone.
"Wade." Reagan's voice had shifted—no longer the comforting friend, but the astute survivor with a case to work. "You still have contacts in Seattle, right? People who can run down leads quietly?"
"A few."
"Good. We're going to need them."
Cara looked around at her team—exhausted, shaken, but already pivoting. Already fighting. Not frozen by fear or guilt, but channeling it into action.
"Wait." She stood, steadier now. "What are we doing?"
Reagan met her eyes. "What we always do. Protecting our own."
"Blaire's dead. The threat is over."
"Is it?" Tom looked up from his laptop. "Someone killed her, Cara. The state police are going to be looking hard at you. At all of us."
"So we find them first," Wade said. "The real killer. Before Gabe's friend decides you're the convenient answer."
Piper crossed her arms, chin lifted with that stubborn determination Cara had come to recognize. "Besides, whoever did this might have Blaire's files now. All her blackmail material. All her leverage." She paused. "Including whatever she had on you."
The words hit like ice water.
Cara hadn't thought of that. Blaire was dead—but her files weren't. Somewhere out there, all that damning information still existed.
"Well then." Cara took a breath, squaring her shoulders. "I guess we'd better get to work."