Chapter 38
The cliffs looked different in daylight.
A little over a month ago, he’d been a Special Agent, racing into Haven Cove desperate to find his missing brother.
Staying wasn’t on his radar. Neither was inheriting a broken police department gutted by corruption, it’s chief and most senior officer killed by the smugglers they’d been assisting for years.
And now, here he was, acting Chief of a five-person department, investigating a murder on the cliffs above the waters the Neptune Brotherhood had plied for decades. Haven Cove kept finding new ways to surprise him.
This morning, fog had softened everything—the jagged rocks below, the weathered guardrail, the terrible stillness of Blaire's body on the stones. Now the afternoon sun cut through with brutal clarity, illuminating every detail Gabe wished he could unsee.
Yellow crime scene tape snapped in the coastal wind.
A state police forensics van sat parked on the gravel turnout, its back doors open, technicians moving in and out with evidence bags and cameras.
The overlook had been trampled by official feet—state officers, medical examiner, photographers—all the necessary machinery of a suspicious death.
The ME had transported Blaire’s body to the county morgue. But Gabe could still see the spot where she'd landed—a dark stain on the rocks below, already being licked by the incoming tide. Soon, the ocean would erase even that.
Gabe parked behind the forensics van and spotted Ellie near the trailhead, talking with Cho and Burkhardt—the sum total of Haven Cove PD's remaining patrol staff. All three looked exhausted, running on coffee and adrenaline after being called out at first light.
"Chief." Ellie broke away as he approached. "State police have the scene locked down. We've been assisting with perimeter, but they've got it handled."
Gabe nodded, surveying his small crew. Cho was barely two years out of the academy—eager, capable, but green. Burkhardt had fifteen years under his belt, most of it in traffic enforcement. Neither was equipped for a homicide investigation.
"Head back to town," Gabe told them. "Cho, I need you on patrol—visible presence, reassure the locals. Burkhardt, handle any calls that come in. Ellie, you're with me for now, but I'll release you within the hour."
"You sure, Chief?" Ellie's dark eyes were sharp, questioning. "I can stay if you need—"
"I'm sure. The State Police team has this covered, and I need bodies back in Haven Cove. We can't neglect the rest of the town because of one case."
Cho and Burkhardt headed for their rigs. Gabe studied Burkhard’s posture. The man was still stiff around him, still uncertain. Not that Gabe blamed him. A month in, of course the shadow of Hale’s betrayal hung over every interaction.
Ellie lingered.
She was silent for a moment, processing. "Can't say I'm surprised someone pushed her." She caught Gabe's expression and shrugged. "I know. Shouldn't speak ill of the dead. But that woman had a darkness in her, Chief. You could see it in her eyes."
"Yeah." Gabe thought of Blaire in her hotel doorway, promising to destroy Cara's life. "You could."
"Anything else you need from me before I head back?"
"Just keep your ears open. Small town like this, people talk. If anyone saw anything last night—a car on the coast road, a stranger asking about the cliffs—I want to know about it."
Ellie nodded and headed for her cruiser. Gabe watched her go, grateful for her competence and her discretion. She hadn't asked about Cara. Hadn't pushed for details she knew he couldn't share. A good officer. A better friend than he probably deserved.
He turned back toward the overlook and spotted Tyler Price near the guardrail, talking to one of the forensics techs.
Even from a distance, Gabe could read his old friend's posture—relaxed but alert, the stance of a man who'd seen enough death to process it without flinching but hadn't grown callous to it.
They'd crossed paths years ago, back when Gabe was on special assignment in Oregon and Tyler was already a fixture in the state police.
Different agencies, different jurisdictions, different chains of command—but Gabe had done Tyler's family a quiet favor, the kind that never made it into any report.
Tyler's nephew. His sister's kid. Twenty years old, scared, and tangled up in the bottom rung of a crime syndicate Gabe's unit had spent eighteen months targeting.
The kid wasn't a player—just an addict who'd stumbled into the wrong orbit.
Gabe had made sure he got pulled into protective custody before the takedown happened, and bundled off to rehab before anyone with a grudge could find him.
It hadn't felt like a big thing at the time. The kid needed a straight path more than he needed a charge sheet. Gabe had been glad to help.
Tyler had never forgotten it.
What started as professional courtesy—a returned call here, a shared resource there—had slowly become something more durable. The kind of friendship that didn't require regular maintenance, just held, the way good things do when they're built on something real.
And then Tyler had paid him back in spades, covering for Gabe and feeding him every bit of intel he could while Gabe hunted for his missing brother last month.
Tyler looked up as Gabe approached, his dark eyes crinkling with something between welcome and wariness.
He was a tall man, lean and weathered, with close-cropped gray hair and the kind of calm authority that made witnesses want to confide in him.
Gabe had seen him coax confessions out of men twice his size just by listening patiently, like he had all the time in the world.
"Gabe." Tyler extended his hand. "Appreciate you coming back out."
"Thanks for the call." Gabe shook it, grip firm. "Sent my people back to town. You've got more resources than I do—figured they'd just be in the way."
"Appreciated. Your officer Torres has been helpful. Sharp eyes on that one."
"She's good." Gabe glanced around at the state police techs methodically working the scene. "What else do we know since this morning?"
Tyler turned toward the overlook, gesturing at the guardrail. "ME confirmed what we suspected. Victim didn't jump and didn't slip. Bruising pattern on her upper back and shoulders is consistent with a hard shove from behind. She was pushed."
Gabe stepped closer to the rail, looking down at the rocks where Blaire had landed. The dark stain was smaller now, the tide creeping higher with each wave.
"Time of death?"
"ME's narrowing it. Preliminary window is between 2200 and 0100. Body temperature and lividity suggest earlier in that range rather than later."
After Gabe had visited her at the hotel, warned her about the brake lines, listened to her gloat about destroying Cara. She'd been alive then—viciously, confidently alive.
Tyler pointed to a section of the guardrail about ten feet to their left. "See those scuff marks? Fresh. And there—" He indicated a patch of disturbed gravel near the edge. "Footprints, partially obscured. We're casting what we can, but the wind's been working against us."
"Two sets of prints?"
"At least two. Hard to be certain, though. This is a popular turn out, and it hasn’t rained in weeks." Tyler shook his head. "It’s like you suggested. She definitely came out here with someone. Or someone followed her. Either way, she wasn't alone."
The wind gusted, carrying the smell of kelp and brine.
Gabe stared at the guardrail, trying to picture it.
Blaire standing here in the darkness, confident and cruel, probably gloating about something—her power, her plans, her invincibility.
And then a sudden shove, a moment of weightlessness, and the rocks rushing up to meet her.
Had she seen it coming? Had she known, in that final second, who had killed her?
He found he didn't feel much either way. That bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
"What do you have on the victim?" Tyler pulled out his notebook. "You said she was connected to an ongoing investigation."
Gabe took a breath. This was the moment. The line he couldn't uncross.
"Her name is Blaire Mitchell. Professional skip tracer on the surface—reuniting families, finding lost relatives.
But that was the cover story." He turned away from the rail, facing Tyler directly.
"Underneath, she was running a blackmail operation.
Found people's secrets, then bled them dry to keep quiet. "
Tyler's pen paused. "How long have you known about this?"
"A few days. One of her victims came forward. Cara Sweet actually." Gabe kept his voice steady, professional.
"And you didn't arrest her?"
"On what charge? Cara wasn't willing to press formal complaints, and neither were Blaire's other victims—that's how the operation worked. She picked people with secrets they couldn't afford to expose, even to law enforcement."
Tyler absorbed this, his expression unreadable. "So your baker had motive."
"She had motive," Gabe agreed. "She also has an alibi. Four witnesses who were with her from 2100 last night until after 0100. They were waiting for Blaire to follow through on a threat—a midnight deadline. When nothing happened, they assumed she was playing mind games."
"Four witnesses."
"Four reliable witnesses. I can give you names and contact information. They'll need to give formal statements, but I spoke with them this morning. Stories are consistent."
Tyler tapped his pen against the notebook, studying Gabe with those patient, perceptive eyes. "Cara Sweet. Your baker." A hint of recognition flickered across his face.
Tyler let that sit for a moment, then his expression sobered. "And now she's a blackmail victim whose blackmailer just turned up dead. That's quite a coincidence."
"It's not a coincidence. It's a motive—one she shares with a couple dozen other people Blaire was squeezing." Gabe held his friend's gaze. "But Cara didn't do this. She has four witnesses who were with her all night."
"You have a personal relationship with her."
Gabe didn't insult his friend by denying it. "I do. That's why I'm telling you everything up front. I'm not going to hide evidence or lie to protect her. But I'm also not going to let her become a convenient scapegoat because she's the obvious choice."
"Nobody's scapegoating anyone." Tyler's voice was mild but firm. "I'm following evidence. That's what I do."
"Sorry. You’re right. I know." Gabe gestured toward the disturbed gravel, the scuff marks on the rail. "Blaire Mitchell made a career out of destroying people's lives. She had dozens of victims—maybe hundreds. Any one of them had motive."
"You have names?"
"Some. There's a man in Seattle, Marcus Webb—she was bleeding him for years.
A woman in Portland, Jessica Forsythe—her brother killed himself after Blaire exposed him.
" Gabe paused. "And there's Michael Thorne, the man who attacked Cara two nights ago.
He built Blaire's surveillance system. She blackmailed him into it. "
Tyler's eyebrows rose. "Sounds like you've been busy."
"Cara's team has been investigating Blaire since she showed up in town. They have resources, connections. They've dug up more in two weeks than I could have found in six months."
"Cara's team." Tyler made a note. "Tell me about them."
Gabe hesitated. This was dangerous ground—revealing too much could put targets on all their backs. But holding back would look like obstruction.
"Former military. Former law enforcement. Tech specialists. They're good people who got pulled into this because they care about Cara." He met Tyler's eyes. "They didn't kill Blaire Mitchell. They were with Cara all night, waiting for the axe to fall."
Tyler was quiet for a long moment, gazing out at the water. A gull wheeled overhead, crying into the wind. One of the forensic techs called out something about a fiber sample, and another tech jogged over with an evidence bag.
"Here's what's going to happen," Tyler said finally. "I'm going to interview Cara Sweet and her witnesses. Verify alibis. If everything checks out, she's not my primary focus." He fixed Gabe with a hard look. "But you're out of this investigation. Officially. You're too close."
"I understand."
"I mean it, Gabe. No freelancing. No parallel investigations. You have information, you bring it to me. That's how this works."
"Understood."
Tyler held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded and tucked his notebook away. "I'll be in touch. And Gabe?" He paused. "I hope you're right about her."
Gabe watched him walk back toward the forensics van, barking orders at the techs, already shifting into full investigation mode. A good cop doing a hard job. Gabe trusted him—as much as he trusted anyone.
But trust only went so far.
He turned back to the overlook one last time. The wind had picked up, whipping the crime scene tape into a frenzy of yellow against the gray sky. Below, the tide rose, foam swirling around the base of the rocks where Blaire had died.
Gabe checked his watch. Nearly four o'clock. Tyler's forensics team would be here for hours yet, combing through gravel and guardrails, looking for physical evidence.
But physical evidence wouldn't tell them who Blaire had come here to meet.
For that, Gabe needed information. Files. Records. The digital trail Blaire had left behind.
He strode back to his truck, mind already racing. Tyler had told him to stay out of the investigation. And officially, he would. He wouldn't interview witnesses. Wouldn't contaminate crime scenes. Wouldn't do anything that could compromise the case.
But reviewing the information Cara's team had already gathered? Running background checks on known associates? Combing through public records for connections?
That was just a concerned citizen doing his homework.
The sooner he found the real killer, the sooner Tyler could close this case and move on. The sooner any investigation into Cara's background—or her friends'—would become irrelevant.
Gabe started the engine and headed back toward town.