Page 34 of Undertow

“I’m not having an emotional crisis,” Cara said.

“I can raise whenever I want,” Wade said. “That’s literally how poker works.”

Reagan ignored him. She turned to Cara with the expression she reserved for moments when she was about to be kind and devastating in equal measure. “He likes you. You like him. Everyone in Haven Cove knows it. Diane asked me about it last week. Piper texts me about it daily. This is not classified information, Cara.”

Cara set her cards down. “Gabe and I can’t be a thing.”

Tom’s knee stopped bouncing. Reagan’s Oreo paused halfway to her mouth. Even Wade’s expression shifted—a subtle rearrangement that on anyone else would have been a dramatic change.

Reagan chose her words with the care of a woman walking through a minefield. “He knows you’ve got a past. Clearly, he doesn’t care.”

“That’s not it.” Cara heard her own voice go flat and didn’t try to fix it. “Everyone in Haven Cove has baggage. That’s half the reason people end up there. But my baggage—” She stopped. Started again. “My baggage could take Gabe down. Not inconvenience him. Not complicate his life. Take him down. His career, his reputation, his ability to stay in the town he’s building a life in. I won’t put him in that position.”

The table was quiet. Outside, the rain did its relentless thing against the windows.

Tom’s voice was low, measured. “He’s a grown man. He gets to decide what risks are worth taking.”

“Not if he doesn’t know what the risks are.”

Another silence. Reagan looked at Tom. Tom looked at his laptop. Wade looked at his cards, but he wasn’t seeing them.

After the silence, Wade straightened his bean pile with one finger. “Deep baggage. Everybody at this table’s carrying the kind that could get you dead. Or locked up. Or disappeared. We’re all still here.”

A sound from the counter—bright, electronic, insistent. Tom’s laptop. He was out of his chair before the second ping, crossing the kitchen in three strides, leaning over the screen with both hands flat on the counter.

“What is it?” she asked.

He held up one finger. Reading. He turned the laptop around. “This might be showtime, kids. Pirelli just got a text from the burner. They’re setting up a meet. Tonight.”

He read the exchange aloud.

Have you found her?

No.

She has the vial. If she talks to anyone, we’re finished.

I know.

Trailhead. Mile marker 47. After dark. Come alone.

Wade dropped his cards and rose. “Eyes only. No engagement. We observe. We identify. We leave.”

“Agreed,” Cara said. “Tom, you monitor from here. Track both phones. If either of them moves off-script, I want to know.”

“Reagan stays with me,” Tom said. “Backup comms. If something goes sideways, you’ll need someone on this end who can coordinate.”

They moved into the rhythm of preparation. Wade checked the car. Cara changed into dark clothes, boots with tread, nothing reflective. Reagan tested the comms equipment—two earpieces, short-range, encrypted. Cara had learned not to ask Tom how.

Tom double-checked Reagan’s earpiece before handing it over. His fingers lingered on the frequency dial a beat longer than necessary.

Reagan looked at him. “I know how radios work, Tom.”

“Just—”

He didn’t finish. She touched his wrist. “I know.”

Cara watched the exchange and felt something tighten behind her sternum. Not jealousy—recognition. The ache of watching two people reach for each other without hesitation.