Page 23 of Undertow

10

Cara repeated the plan in her head. She and Reagan were two sisters from Portland with big trust funds and a deep concern about their alcoholic older brother. They wanted him in care. Fast.

Cara ran through the cover one more time as the gate rolled open. Pacific Crest Wellness Center came into view—money pretending to be modesty. Cedar and glass. Landscaped grounds. A discreet sign at the turn-off. A winding private drive through old-growth Douglas fir. Everything designed to communicate one thing: whatever happened here, happened quietly.

They walked through the front doors as the Ellison sisters. They’d rehearsed in the car. Reagan was the emotional one—the sister who cried in intake meetings and needed reassurance. Cara was the practical one—the sister who handled logistics, wrote checks, and asked the hard questions. It was a dynamic they’d fallen into without discussion, because it happened to be true. Reagan led with her heart. Cara led with her head.

The reception area confirmed everything the exterior promised. Warm lighting. Fresh flowers. Leather chairs that had never been sat in by anyone who couldn’t afford them. A water feature trickling in the corner with .

The receptionist smiled and asked them to wait.

That was when Cara heard the voices.

Two men, behind a closed door down the hallway. She couldn’t make out words, but she didn’t need to. Decades of cons had taught her the difference between a discussion and a confrontation, and this was the latter. One voice was controlled, clipped—the cadence of someone accustomed to being obeyed. The other was higher, defensive, the pitch of a man explaining something he knew wouldn’t be believed.

Reagan glanced at her. Cara gave the smallest shake of her head. Listen. Don’t react.

"Ms. Ellison? I'm Jen Kirsch, patient liaison." She extended her hand to Cara first, then Reagan, her gaze warm and calibrated—the exact temperature of professional empathy. "I'm so sorry for the wait. Dr. Pirelli's been pulled into a meeting that's running a bit long." She didn't glance toward the hallway. Didn't acknowledge the voices at all. "I thought I might show you the grounds while you wait. It's a beautiful morning—well, beautiful for January." A self-deprecating laugh. Practiced.

"That would be lovely," Cara said, matching Jen’s warmth degree for degree. She let her voice carry a thread of anxiety—the concerned sister, slightly overwhelmed, grateful for someone competent to guide her. "This is all a little new for us. We’ve never—I mean, David has never⁠—"

"Of course." Jen touched Cara's arm. Brief. Deliberate. The contact of a woman trained to ground anxious families with a single gesture. "That's exactly what we're here for. "

Reagan sniffed quietly beside her. Right on cue.

Jen led them toward the side exit, positioning herself between the sisters and the hallway where the voices were still audible—a body-block disguised as hospitality. Getting them out of earshot. Smoothly. Professionally.

The grounds were immaculate. Walking paths through coastal gardens, ocean views from every angle. The liaison walked them through it, pointing out amenities the way a real estate agent showed a listing—the yoga studio, the chef-prepared meals, the private therapy suites.

Reagan asked soft questions. What was the average stay? Were families involved in treatment planning? Was there a sauna and cold plunge? Massages? Did they offer equine therapy?—which was a nice touch, Cara thought, because it sounded like exactly the kind of thing a wealthy sister would ask.

Then Cara pivoted.

“Our family name is… recognizable,” she said, letting the pause do the work. “Shareholders. Board seats. Media attention when someone sneezes wrong.” She met the liaison’s eyes. “If our brother comes here, there cannot be a single whisper. Not a leak to staff. Not a rumor in town. Not a peep. If his name shows up anywhere—anywhere—the stock implications alone⁠—”

“Understood. We deal with this all the time. Literally. We maintain absolute discretion,” the woman said. Smooth and immediate. “NDA agreements for every staff member. Private rooms. Separate intake process for high-profile guests. Your brother’s privacy would be our highest priority.”

Cara pushed. “And the patients themselves? Are they free to wander the grounds? Could someone see him?”

“Guests,” the woman corrected. Quickly. “Our guests have full access to the grounds during designated hours. This isn’t a locked facility.”

“So if someone wanted to leave⁠—”

“They’re free to do so.” The woman’s smile didn’t waver. “Don’t worry. No one does.”

She added that quickly. Pacific Crest had a script for everything, including the question of whether people could leave.

They were still on the grounds—near the meditation pavilion, the liaison gesturing toward the ocean view—when the main doors opened.

A man hurried out. Silver-haired. Mid-sixties. Expensive overcoat that moved with him like it had been tailored to accommodate fury. He didn’t look around. Didn’t pause.

A driver was already at the car—a black limo parked near the entrance. Big man. Dark suit. The kind of posture that came from training, not habit. He opened the rear door without being asked. The silver-haired man got in without breaking stride. The door closed. The limo pulled out of the lot and turned south toward the coast highway.

Cara watched it go. Silver hair. Professional driver who doubled as security. Limo. Gabe’s text from yesterday, still sitting in her phone like a warning she hadn’t fully processed: Travels with a driver who doubles as security. Be careful.

Graham Whitfield. Elena's uncle. He'd been here—behind that closed door, one of the two voices she'd heard in the lobby. And whatever he'd come for, he'd left angry.

But Jen had seen it too. Her gaze tracked the limo until it turned onto the coast highway, and something shifted behind her eyes—not relief exactly, but the loosening of a woman whose job had just gotten easier. She checked her phone, smiled brightly, and turned back to them.