Chapter 41
Cara barely slept.
She'd tossed and turned on her bed, still in her clothes from the drive back from Portland, too exhausted to change but too wired to rest. When sleep finally came, it brought nightmares—Blaire's face morphing into Jessica's, both of them standing at the edge of a cliff, beckoning her forward.
Come see what's at the bottom, Cara. Come see what happens to people like us.
She'd woken at five, gasping, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
Now she sat in the basement, hands wrapped around a mug of tea Diane had pressed on her before she’d come downstairs. “Chamomile,” Diane told her. “For your nerves.” The tea had gone cold twenty minutes ago.
Reagan had driven them back from Portland last night, neither of them speaking much. They'd arrived after eleven to find Tom and Piper still monitoring, still searching, still coming up empty.
Wade had pulled in around six this morning, running on gas station coffee and grim determination. Seattle had been a dead end—Marcus Webb locked up tight with an airtight alibi.
And Jessica was gone.
Tom sat at his laptop, red-eyed and rumpled, running yet another search that would probably come up empty.
Piper was curled in the corner chair, half-asleep, her phone dangling from limp fingers.
Tom had made her rest on the basement couch, but a light nap wasn't enough for a sixteen-year-old who'd been awake for two days.
Lord, I don't know what to do. Cara closed her eyes, the prayer rising up before she could stop it. We found the truth, but it doesn't matter. Jessica's gone. And I'm so tired I can barely think.
She paused, searching for words that wouldn't come.
Please just... help me get through this day. Help me trust that You're still in control, even when nothing makes sense. Even when the bad guys win.
Even when I'm not sure who the bad guys are anymore.
She opened her eyes as footsteps sounded overhead. A moment later, Gabe descended the stairs, his face tight with frustration.
"Tyler's issued a BOLO," he said without preamble. "Jessica Forsythe, silver Prius, photo and description sent to state police, airports, bus stations, border crossings."
"And?" Wade asked, straightening from his lean against the wall.
"And nothing. Two days is a long head start." Gabe ran a hand through his hair. "She could be in Canada by now. Mexico. Anywhere."
"So we just wait?" Reagan's voice was sharp with exhaustion. "Hope she surfaces?"
"I'm monitoring everything I can," Tom said, his voice hoarse. "Credit cards, phone pings, social media. If she uses anything digital, I'll know."
"And if she stays dark?" Piper mumbled from her corner, not quite awake.
No one answered. Because there was no good answer.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
"This is pointless." Wade pushed off the wall. "We're chasing a ghost. She planned this for months. She's not going to slip up now."
"He's right." Reagan grabbed her jacket. "We need sleep. Real sleep. Come at this fresh tomorrow."
Tom nodded slowly, then looked at Piper. "Come on, kiddo. I'm taking you home."
"But—"
"You can barely keep your eyes open." His voice was gentle but firm. "We'll pick this up later."
Piper looked ready to argue, but exhaustion won out. She gathered her things, shooting Cara a frustrated look. "Call me if anything happens?"
"Promise."
Wade caught Reagan's eye. "I'll follow you out. I need some sleep before I'll be any use to anyone."
The team filtered toward the stairs—Tom and Piper first, then Wade and Reagan. The basement fell quiet.
Gabe lingered.
"How are you holding up?" he asked, moving closer.
"Honestly?" Cara stared at the dregs of her coffee. "I had nightmares all night. Blaire and Jessica, standing on a cliff, waiting for me to join them."
"Cara..."
Gabe was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled a chair close to hers and sat, their knees almost touching.
"You didn't push her off that cliff." His hand found hers on the table. Warm. Steady. "Feeling relieved that a threat is gone isn't the same as wanting someone dead."
Cara wanted to believe him so badly her chest ached.
"The threat isn't gone, though," she said. "What if Jessica has Blaire’s files?"
“We can’t know she has them. Or if she intends to use them.”
“We can’t know she doesn’t.”
Gabe held her gaze. "Whatever's in those files, it doesn't change how I see you. You know that, right?"
But you don't know who I really am.
Before she could respond, his radio crackled. Tyler Price’s voice, tinny and distant. "Sawyer, you copy? Need you at the station."
Gabe closed his eyes briefly, then keyed the radio. "Copy. On my way." He looked at Cara, something unfinished in his expression. "We'll talk later?"
"Yeah. Later."
He squeezed her hand once, then headed up the stairs. The basement door closed behind him.
Cara sat alone in the silence, Gabe's words echoing in her head.
It doesn't change how I see you.
But it would. When he found out the truth—the whole truth—everything would change.
She bowed her head.
Lord, I'm so scared. Of Jessica. Of the files. Of losing everything I've built here. She pressed her palms against her eyes, holding back tears. I know I don't deserve this life. I know I lied to get here. But please... please don't let it all fall apart. Not yet. Not like this.
She sat there for a long moment, breathing, waiting for peace that didn't quite come.
Then she wiped her face, squared her shoulders, and climbed the stairs to face the day.
The bakery was already humming with the Sunday morning rush. Diane had everything under control—trays of fresh pastries in the display case, coffee brewing, the warm smell of sugar and butter filling the air.
"There you are." Diane smiled as Cara emerged from the back. "Ready to face the masses?"
"As I'll ever be."
Cara tied on her apron and fell into the familiar rhythm.
Taking orders. Making change. Smiling at customers she'd come to recognize—the retired couple who always split a blueberry scone, the young mom with twin toddlers who needed extra napkins, the businessman who ordered a large black coffee and never said please.
It was almost soothing. Almost normal.
The church crowd arrived around eleven, flooding the small space with chatter and laughter. Cara moved on autopilot, her body going through the motions while her mind churned elsewhere.
Jessica had been so broken on the phone. So hollow. You can't stop her. Nobody can.
But Jessica had stopped her. Permanently.
And now she was gone, carrying all of Blaire's secrets into whatever new life she was building.
The rush peaked, then slowly ebbed. By one o'clock, only a handful of customers remained. Diane untied her apron and stretched.
"I'm going to run to the post office on my break," she said, grabbing her purse. "Need to mail my sister's birthday package before it's late. Again." She smiled. "You okay holding down the fort for thirty minutes?"
"Go. I've got it."
Diane headed out the front door, the bell chiming behind her, and Cara was alone with the quiet. She wiped down tables. Refilled napkin dispensers. Straightened chairs that didn't need straightening.
The bell over the door chimed.
Cara looked up automatically, customer-service smile already in place.
A woman entered, the artist, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder with paintbrush handles poking out the top.
Cara barely registered her, already reaching for a cup. "What can I get you?"
The woman approached the counter, a pleasant smile on her face. "One last cappuccino before I head back to real life. Portland."
Portland.
The word hit Cara like a physical blow.
She froze, cup suspended in mid-air, and really looked at the woman for the first time. The dark curly hair. The glasses. The bare face, no makeup.
Strip away the wig.
Add the pixie-cut.
Add the refined polish, the professional makeup.
The cup slipped from Cara's fingers, clattering against the counter.
Jessica Forsythe.
She'd been here the whole time. Painting. Drinking cappuccinos.
Hiding in plain sight.
Jessica's pleasant expression shifted as she registered the recognition in Cara's eyes. But there was no panic. No surprise. Just a quiet acknowledgment, like a mask being set aside.
Her hand moved to the canvas bag.
When it emerged, it held a small handgun—kept low, below the counter's edge, invisible to anyone who might glance through the front window. "I wondered how long it would take you."
Cara's heart hammered against her ribs. "You wanted me to recognize you."
"I need to talk to you. This seemed like the simplest way." Jessica hurried to the door and flipped the closed sign, then gestured with the gun. "Let’s head to the back. We have a lot to discuss."