Page 25 of Undertow

“That place,” Cara agreed. “And that man.”

“Which one?”

That made Cara laugh. “Both, I guess, but I was thinking about Dr. Creepy.”

“The bruise wasn’t from a squash racket.”

“No.”

“The ‘guests can leave anytime’ line was rehearsed.”

“Yes.”

Reagan sipped her latte. “I worked in hospitals. I know what a controlled environment looks like. That place isn’t a wellness center. It’s a warehouse with ocean views.”

Cara turned her coffee cup slowly on the table. “Pirelli’s hiding something. But he’s not stupid—he gave us just enough to seem transparent without actually telling us anything. That takes practice.”

“The security question rattled him,” Reagan said. “I saw it too. His eyes.”

“He’s had a breach. Recently. Something that shook him.” Cara looked out the window at the quiet street. “And Graham Whitfield was behind that closed door this morning, tearing into him about it.”

Reagan set her mug down. “So what are we looking at? Uncle shows up furious. Doctor’s got a bruise he’s lying about. The staff runs interference like it’s a drill they’ve practiced. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, Elena Whitfield walked out.”

“Or was pushed out,” Cara said quietly. “Or ran.”

The distinction mattered. It was, in fact, the only thing that mattered.

The café door opened, and the temperature in the room changed.

Graham Whitfield walked in—unhurried, deliberate, each step carrying the weight of a man who’d never once wondered whether he belonged somewhere. The fury from the facility parking lot was gone. In its place was something more controlled and considerably more unsettling: composure.

Through the window, Cara could see the limo with its blacked-out windows parked across the street. Chuck stood beside it, arms folded, watching the café entrance. A dark shape in a dark suit, perfectly still.

Graham crossed the room without hesitation, pulled out a chair at their table, and sat down. He didn’t ask. He arranged his coat over the back of the chair, set his hands flat on the table—palms down, fingers relaxed, the body language of a man who wanted you to know he was being open—and looked at them.

“Ms. Sweet. Ms. Hale.”

Cara’s coffee went cold in her hand. Not the Ellison sisters. Their real names. Or rather—their Haven Cove names. Their new identities. He’d run them. She felt the familiar calculus fire behind her ribs: how deep did he go? What did he find? How much is real and how much is the cover?

She kept her face still. Took a sip of coffee. Let the silence work.

Graham filled it. He clearly wasn’t a man who tolerated silence when he had something to say.

“I’ll be direct, because I respect your time and I’d appreciate the same courtesy.” His voice was measured. “Elena is my niece. She’s been struggling—for years, if I’m being honest. Since her mother’s death. Then, after Julian passed…” He swallowed, shrugging lightly. “Substance issues. Poor decisions. People who’ve taken advantage of her when she was at her most vulnerable.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “And now she’s missing.”

He shifted in his seat. “I don’t share family business with strangers. I want that understood. But you should know who you’re dealing with, where Derek Voss is concerned.”

He let a breath go. “He is a snake. I say that without pleasure. I watched my niece fall for him, and I watched him take everything she offered—her money, her connections, her trust—and give her nothing in return but heartbreak.” Graham’s jaw tightened. “He was cheating on her from the very beginning. Multiple women. While Elena was funding his startup and introducing him to her contacts and believing—“ He stopped. Collected himself. The composure reassembled, but not before Cara saw what was underneath it: genuine anger, and underneath that, something that looked uncomfortably like grief.

“She even had to file a restraining order,” Graham continued, quieter now. “After she kicked him to the curb, and he decided not to take no for an answer. That’s when things got worse. The drinking. The isolation. The spiral that eventually led to Pacific Crest.” He met Cara’s eyes. “Voss didn’t cause all of Elena’s problems. But he amplified the ones that were already there. And now he’s hired you to—what? Find her? Help her?” A thin smile. “Derek Voss has never helped anyone who wasn’t Derek Voss. Whatever he’s told you, I’d verify independently.”

Cara said nothing. Everything Graham was saying tracked with what she’d already observed — the pivot from contrition to salesmanship, the rehearsed sadness, every brushstroke matching the sketch she’d already drawn.

“I will find my niece,” he said. “I have people, resources, the legal standing to act on her behalf. I will do whatever’s necessary to bring her home safely.” He looked between them. “What I won’t tolerate is interference from Voss. If anyone feeds him information about Elena’s whereabouts or condition—anyone—I’ll use every resource at my disposal to address it. And if information about Elena’s struggles becomes public—“ He paused. “There will be nowhere to hide. She’s been through enough. She deserves privacy, and I intend to make sure she gets it.”

He stood. Buttoned his coat.

“Be careful,” he said. “This coast isn’t kind in January.”