Page 26 of Undertow

He walked out. His driver opened the door. The limo pulled away, and the café settled back into its small-town quiet, as if Graham Whitfield had never been there at all.

Cara and Reagan sat without speaking for a full minute. Then Reagan picked up her latte, found it cold, and set it back down.

“He knew our names,” Reagan said.

“Our Haven Cove names. Not the real ones.” Cara let that distinction breathe. It was the only thing keeping her heartbeat at a manageable speed. “His background checks hit the covers. Not what’s underneath.”

“Yet,” Reagan said.

“Yet,” Cara agreed

Tom came through the door first. Something in Cara’s expression stopped him mid-stride.

“What happened?”

Cara told him. Graham. The names. The background checks. The warning. Tom’s face went through three changes in rapid succession: confusion, comprehension, and then a flash of anger so raw it transformed him. His jaw set. His hands curled at his sides. “I should have been here.”

“Tom—” Reagan started.

“I should have been here.” Quieter the second time, but harder.

Reagan touched his arm. Light. Brief. “We’re fine. He talked. We listened. That’s all.”

Tom looked at her hand on his arm and then at her face, and something passed between them that Cara recognized—the unguarded moment before the mask went back up. He caught himself a beat too late, straightened, cleared his throat. Reagan clearly noticed.

Wade came in behind Tom, assessed the table with a single look, and sat down. “Tell me everything he said. Word for word.”

They told him. When they finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

“All right.” Wade leaned back. “We need more before we can figure out what this is. Tom—dig into the Whitfields. The money, the Foundation, the family structure. Everything.”

Tom nodded. Already reaching for his laptop bag.

“Cara, Reagan—stay in town. Talk to people. Bartenders, shopkeepers, anyone who works near the facility or services it. See what the locals know.”

Cara nodded.

Wade looked out the window toward the forested slopes rising behind the town—dark Douglas fir climbing toward the ridge where Pacific Crest sat like a fortress disguised as a retreat. He held out his hand toward Tom without looking at him.

“Keys.”

Tom dropped the car keys into Wade’s palm. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve got an idea.” Wade stood, pocketed the keys, pulled on his jacket. “I’ll be back before dark.” He paused at the counter, looked back at them, and nodded at the pastry case. “Get a pie. Cherry if they have it.” He held up a finger. “Save me some.”

He left. The bell above the door chimed once and went still.

Tom stared after him. “Does he always do that?”

“Yes,” Cara and Reagan said together.

12

The Haven Cove Police station had opinions about Saturday afternoons. The clock said them loudly. The fluorescent light above the break room said them with a flicker that had been getting worse since November and that Gabe kept meaning to fix and kept not fixing, because fixing things in this building felt like a commitment he hadn’t made.

Maggie, his dependable desk sergeant, had gone home at three. Ellie was out on a domestic call—neighbors on Cypress, the same ones as last month, noise complaint that would resolve itself by the time she got there. The other two officers weren’t due until the evening shift. That left Gabe, the clock, and the Elena Whitfield file open on his screen.

He checked his phone. No updates. Six hours of nothing. Six hours of a team he couldn’t officially help doing work he couldn’t officially acknowledge.