Chapter 37
Monday morning in the Mission was quiet in a way weekends clearly weren’t.
Cara stared down at the busy street below.
The coffee shops were full of commuters instead of brunchers.
The taqueria below their windows had its doors propped open for morning customers, but the trumpet player on the corner hadn’t come out yet—it wasn’t his hour.
The city was going to work, and Cara stood at the kitchen window in a soft gray sweater she hadn’t taken off since last night and watched her team shedding their city personas.
Tom was consolidating laptops. Reagan had the duffels staged by the door.
Wade had gone out to get breakfast for seven and come back with a paper grocery sack heavy enough to break a younger man’s arm—breakfast burritos wrapped in foil, coffee in a cardboard tray, and a sleeve of Mexican pastries for Piper, who accepted them like coronation jewels.
Elena was up. She’d dressed for travel in jeans and a thick cardigan, hair pulled back, and she was helping Piper roll clothes into tight cylinders and stuff them into duffels.
Cara was about to help when her phone rang.
Derek Voss.
She almost didn’t answer. But years of running had taught her that ignoring a problem never made it smaller.
She lifted the phone to her ear. “Derek.”
“Did you file that missing person’s report?” No greeting. No charm. His voice was tight and hot. “Because I just got a call from the FBI. The F-B-I, Cara. They wanted to know if I was involved in her disappearance from Pacific Crest.”
“I didn’t file anything,” Cara said. “My guess is it was Graham.”
Derek’s laugh was ugly. “Of course it was Graham. That man has been a problem since the day Julian died. But the FBI doesn’t know that. The FBI sees a concerned uncle and a missing niece and an ex-boyfriend who fits a convenient narrative.”
He was spiraling. Cara could hear it—the narcissist’s panic, the sound of a man whose primary concern in any crisis was how it reflected on him.
She kept her voice level. “I’m on your side here. You know that.”
He snorted. “Actually, I don’t know that, Cara.”
And there it was—the temperature drop. She knew what was coming before he said it.
“I looked into you. Just to be safe. I couldn’t find much, which is its own kind of interesting.
It’s weird. Like you were totally off the radar before you opened that bakery.
Interesting how little there is to find.
No. Not interesting. Suspicious. Extremely suspicious. What’s with the hiding, Cara?”
She didn’t flinch. Playing this cool was her only chance. “My past is my business, Derek.”
A longer pause. She could hear him recalibrating
“Okay.” His voice softened. Now he was the wounded one.
“Okay. I’m not trying to threaten you. I’m just—I’m panicking, okay?
Because the FBI is asking me questions I can’t answer, and my name is going to be in every headline when this breaks, and I didn’t do anything wrong.
Cara, I loved her. I tried to get her help.
And now I’m going to be the ex-boyfriend in every article, and everybody’s going to think—“ He cut himself off.
A shaky breath that was maybe real, maybe performance.
“Please. If the FBI calls you, you have to tell them I had nothing to do with this. You have to. Please.”
She almost laughed. Not because it was funny.
Because it was exactly what she’d known he would say, in exactly the voice she’d known he’d say it in.
Angry, and when that didn’t work, threatening.
When that didn’t work, he veered into pathetic, cycling through his stunted range of emotions like a guy trying keys in a lock.
Across the kitchen, Piper had stopped rolling clothes and was looking at her. Reagan paused at the door with a duffel on her shoulder. The whole team was waiting.
“Derek, we’re handling it. If you had nothing to do with her disappearance, you’ve got nothing to worry about from the FBI.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not putting any money on that, Cara.” He hung up.
Reagan met her at the kitchen counter. Eyebrows up.
“Derek,” Cara said.
“What did our smarmy little ex want?”
Cara gave her the short version. He wanted her to vouch for him if anyone asked. He was terrified of how this was going to look for him.
Reagan rolled her eyes hard. “He’s worried about his reputation? Of course he is.” She shouldered the duffel. “Forget him. Load up.”
Tom called out from the kitchen table: “Is he gonna be a problem?”
“He’s a nuisance,” Cara said.
Cara looked out the window at the Mission one last time. The taqueria. The hummingbird mural on the opposite building. The guy with the tamale cooler setting up for lunch.
She didn't repeat what Derek said about investigating her past. Those words belonged to this city, to this window, and she was leaving them right where she'd found them.