Page 10 of Undertow

4

The diner was half-empty on a Tuesday night — a few regulars at the counter, the Hendersons in their usual booth, and Reagan already positioned at the corner table near the window, where she could see the door and the parking lot simultaneously.

Reagan met Cara’s eyes across the room and gave a small nod. I’ve got you.

Cara sat down across from her. Thirty seconds later, Derek Voss walked in.

He was more composed now, like the walk in the rain had given him time to collect himself. He spotted Cara immediately, hesitated when he saw Reagan, then came to the table and stood.

“Sit down,” Cara said. “This is my friend Reagan. She stays.”

Derek sat. He placed his hands flat on the table — that same deliberate visibility — and took a breath.

“My girlfriend disappeared three days ago. My ex-girlfriend, I guess I should say. About ten months ago, she was admitted to a place called Pacific Crest Wellness Center. Private facility on the Oregon coast. She’d been going through a difficult time — her mom died a few years ago, and then her dad a little over a year ago. She struggled, you know? Some substance issues developed.”

He paused. His jaw worked.

“We had a falling out while she was in treatment. That’s on me. But three nights ago, during the storm, she disappeared. And now she’s missing.” His voice tightened on the last word, and he pressed his hands flat against the table like he was holding himself to the earth. “The facility says she left against medical advice. The police are treating it as a voluntary departure. Nobody’s looking for her.”

He looked up at Cara with eyes that held something she was still trying to read. Desperation, certainly. But underneath it — and this was the part that snagged on her instincts like a thread catching on a nail .

“I’ve tried police in Portland,” he continued. “I’ve tried private investigators. Nobody will touch it — Elena’s family has resources that make people careful. I was told you and your people handled something last fall. That you’re good at finding answers when nobody else will look.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I can pay. Whatever your fee is, whatever it takes — I’ll cover it.”

Cara said nothing. Across the table, Reagan said nothing. They let the silence work.

He was telling the truth about his girlfriend being missing. She believed that completely.

Whether that was the whole truth, she couldn’t yet say.

Lord, I could use some clarity right about now.

The prayer surfaced without effort — the way they’d started to, these last few months. Not the dramatic kind. The practical kind. The kind a woman offered when she was sitting across from a stranger in a diner and her gut was saying two things at once.

She glanced at Reagan. Reagan’s expression was neutral, careful — her tell for I’m still reading.

“Tell me more about your girlfriend,” Cara said. “And tell me about the facility.”

"Her name is Elena Whitfield."

Cara's expression didn't change. The name meant nothing to her.

Something flickered across Derek's face — surprise, maybe, or recalibration. He'd expected the name to do heavy lifting, and it hadn't.

"Her father was Julian Whitfield," he said, adjusting. "Whitfield Data Systems. He built one of the largest data-security companies in the country. The family is — they're significant. Old money amplified by new money. Elena's mother, Catherine, ran a charitable foundation before she died. Elena took it over." He paused. "The Whitfields don't have problems that stay small. When something goes wrong, there are lawyers and publicists and family offices involved before anyone else even hears about it. That's why nobody will touch this. Private investigators hear the name and suddenly they're booked solid. Police hear the name and suddenly it's a voluntary departure."

Whether that was the whole truth, Cara couldn't yet say. But she'd spent enough years in rooms with powerful people to know the shape of what he was describing: the gravitational pull of serious money. She'd used that gravity herself, once. She knew what it looked like from both sides.

She also knew that the man sitting across from her had held back the name until after he'd told his story. That was a choice. He'd wanted her to hear the situation first and the power second. Whether that was smart storytelling or calculated misdirection, she filed it away.

Derek talked for twenty minutes. He was organized about it — the timeline, the details of Pacific Crest, Elena’s background in nonprofit work, her father Julian Whitfield and the family money.

What he didn’t mention: anything about his own life that might complicate the picture. Or what their break up had been about.

When he finished, Cara sat with it. The rain streaked down the diner window. Reagan had filled a page of the small notebook she always carried. The coffee had gone cold.

Cara thought about a woman escaping into a January storm. About what kind of fear made that seem like the better option. About the team in the bakery basement who’d been waiting six months for exactly this kind of phone call.