Chapter 40
Jessica Forsythe's condo complex looked exactly as Cara remembered it—sleek lines, modern construction, upper middle class. The comfortable life Jessica had built before Blaire destroyed it.
"Nice place," Reagan said, scanning the parking lot as they climbed out of the truck. "Or it was, anyway."
"Her car's not here." Cara searched for the silver Prius the neighbor had mentioned last time.
"Could be at work."
"On a Saturday evening?" Cara shook her head. "Tom said she took personal leave. Family emergency."
Family emergency. She thought about Shawn, about the brother Jessica had lost. What family did she have left to have an emergency about?
"I came here with Wade a few weeks ago," Cara said as they approached the entrance. "Her neighbor saw us, told Jessica we'd been snooping around. That's part of why she was so angry when I called."
"Great," Reagan muttered. "So we're already on the neighbor's bad side."
"Pretty much."
They took the elevator to the third floor. Apartment 3C—Jessica's unit—had a cheerful welcome mat that seemed to mock the darkness behind the door. Cara knocked anyway.
Nothing.
She tried again. "Jessica? It's Cara Sweet. I know you told me not to come back, but something's happened."
Silence.
Reagan moved to the neighboring door—3B—and knocked. After a moment, it cracked open, chain still engaged. A woman in her sixties peered out, silver hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her eyes narrowed when she spotted Cara.
"You again." Her voice was flat. "And you brought a different friend this time. I told you people to leave Jessica alone."
"Ma'am, we're not here to cause trouble," Reagan said, her voice smooth and reassuring. "We just need to know if you've seen Jessica recently. It's urgent."
"Urgent." The woman snorted. "That's what you said last time. Before you showed up at her work and nearly got her fired."
Cara stepped forward. "Please. A woman is dead. We think Jessica might be in danger."
The neighbor's expression shifted—suspicion giving way to something else. Concern, maybe. Or fear.
"Dead? What woman?"
"The woman responsible for Shawn Forsythe’s death." Cara held the neighbor's gaze. "She was killed two nights ago. And we need to make sure Jessica is safe."
The chain slid free. The door opened wider.
"She left," the neighbor said quietly. "Four, maybe five days ago. Packed a big suitcase, threw it in her car."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"No. But she gave me her key, asked me to water her plants." The neighbor's eyes darted between them. "Said she might be gone for a while. Needed to 'take care of something.'"
Cara's stomach tightened. Four or five days ago. Right around the time Blaire arrived in Haven Cove.
"Did she say anything else? Anything about where she was headed, or why?"
The neighbor hesitated. "She said... she said it was almost over. That she'd finally figured out a way to end it." Her voice dropped. "I thought she meant her grief. The therapy she's been doing. I didn't think..."
She didn't finish. Didn't need to.
"Thank you," Reagan said. "If she comes back, or if you hear from her, please call us." She handed over a card. "It's important."
The neighbor took the card with trembling fingers. "Is Jessica in trouble?"
Cara didn't know how to answer that. "We just want to talk to her. Make sure she's okay."
They left the neighbor standing in her doorway, clutching Reagan's card.
Back in the truck, Reagan called Tom on speaker.
"Jessica's in the wind," she reported. "Left Portland four or five days ago. Neighbor said she was 'taking care of something.' Said it was 'almost over.'"
"That lines up with when Blaire arrived in Haven Cove,” he said.
"Any luck tracking her digitally?"
"Some. She hasn't used her credit cards since she left Portland. Phone's either off or she ditched it—last ping was five days ago, near the I-5 corridor heading south."
"South toward Haven Cove," Cara said.
"Could be. Or she could have turned off anywhere along the way." Tom paused. "But there's something else. I've been digging into the assistant angle—whoever was running Blaire's accounts. And I found something."
"What?"
"The assistant's digital fingerprint. Whoever was posting for Blaire used multiple layers of encryption, burner emails, VPNs. Serious operational security. But they made one mistake—an IP address that traces back to Portland."
Cara's breath caught. "Portland."
"I cross-referenced it with known locations for both our suspects. Marcus Webb's never been anywhere near that IP. But Jessica Forsythe?" Tom's voice was grim. "She lived three blocks away."
Reagan gripped the steering wheel. "You're saying Jessica was Blaire's assistant?"
"I'm saying someone operating from Jessica's neighborhood had access to all of Blaire's files.
Her victims. Her methods. Everything." Tom exhaled.
"I dug deeper. Found employment records buried under fake credentials.
Six months ago, someone named 'Jennifer Foster' was hired as Blaire's virtual assistant.
Tech support, scheduling, social media management. "
"Jennifer Foster," Cara repeated. "Jessica Forsythe."
"The initials match. The timing matches. And the skill set matches—Jessica's an accountant. She knows how to hide money trails, manipulate records. She'd know how to create a fake identity good enough to fool Blaire."
Cara leaned back against the headrest, trying to process. Jessica hadn't just been a grieving sister. She'd infiltrated Blaire's operation. Spent six months inside the machine that had destroyed her brother.
"She had access to everything," Cara said slowly. "All of Blaire's victims. All her leverage."
"Including whatever Blaire had on you," Reagan added quietly.
The implication hung in the air.
"There's more," Tom said. "Wade just checked in from Seattle. Marcus Webb has an airtight alibi—he's been in county lockup for the past two weeks. DUI arrest. He couldn't have killed Blaire."
"So it's Jessica." Reagan's voice was flat. "It has to be."
"Blaire had hundreds of victims. We don't know that for certain," Tom cautioned. "But this Jessica is looking less like a victim and more like a suspect by the minute."
You can't stop her. Nobody can.
But Jessica had found a way. Not through lawyers or lawsuits or legal channels. Through patience. Infiltration. Six months of pretending to serve the woman who'd destroyed her brother, gathering information, waiting for the right moment.
And then—a push. A cliff. An ending.
"Tom," Cara said. "The assistant would have had access to Blaire's posting schedule, right? Her Instagram?"
"Full access. Why?"
"Piper said the posting patterns changed. Different writing styles, different times. Like two people were running the account."
"Right. Blaire and her assistant."
"So if the assistant posted something after Blaire died—something to make it look like Blaire was still alive—you could trace where that post came from?"
Tom was quiet for a moment. Then: "Piper. You still there?"
Piper's voice came through, slightly muffled. "I'm here. Already checking."
Keyboard clicks. A sharp intake of breath.
"Oh wow," Piper said.
"What?" Cara leaned toward the phone.
"Blaire's last post. The one that went up Friday morning—the sunset with that stupid quote about 'finding your truth.' I assumed Blaire scheduled it before she died. But the metadata..."
"What about the metadata?"
"The location tag. It's not from the hotel. It's not from Portland." Piper's voice dropped. "It pings to Haven Cove. To the cliffs."
Silence.
"The assistant posted it," Cara said slowly. "From the cliffs. Either right before or right after Blaire died."
"She was there," Reagan said. "Jessica was at those cliffs."
"And then she ran." Tom's voice was grim. "Smart. Get out of town before anyone finds the body. She's probably halfway to Canada."
Cara's mind raced. Jessica had left Portland five days ago. Drove south toward Haven Cove. Lured Blaire to the cliffs. Pushed her. Posted to her Instagram to maintain the illusion she was still alive.
And then vanished.
"Can we track her?" Reagan asked. "Credit cards, phone, anything?"
"I've been trying," Piper said. "Nothing since she left Portland. No card activity, no phone pings. She went completely dark."
"Because she was planning this," Cara said quietly. "She knew she'd need to disappear afterward."
Reagan exhaled slowly. "So we know who probably killed Blaire. We just can't find her."
"Tyler Price needs this information," Tom said. "Gabe too. They can put out a BOLO, alert the state police, check airports and bus stations—"
"She's got a huge head start." Cara stared out at the darkening sky. "She could be anywhere by now."
Cara nodded. If Jessica gained access to Blaire’s database, it was possible the threat hadn't ended. It may have simply changed hands.
"Let's get back," Cara said wearily. "Brief Gabe. Give Tyler what we have. Maybe they'll find something we missed."
Reagan started the engine. "And if they don't?"
Cara didn't answer. She just stared out the window at the coastal highway, watching the last light fade from the sky.
Jessica Forsythe had won. She'd gotten her revenge on Blaire, and she'd gotten away clean.
So far.