Page 42 of Undertow

He arched his back, trying to loosen his body after the long drive, and a night spent on a mattress less supportive than an average tortilla. Mug in hand, he paused next to the coffeemaker and took inventory. He did this automatically now—the scan, the count, the quiet assessment of who was where and what condition they were in. Cop habit. It had saved his life more times than he could count and annoyed everyone around him approximately the same number.

Tom was at the table. He had two laptops open and a tablet propped against a coffee mug. He also had his chair angled so that Piper was in his peripheral vision at all times, which Piper was pretending not to notice and which fooled exactly no one.

Reagan was at the stove, scrambling eggs. She’d also made coffee, organized the first aid supplies into labeled bags, and hung a towel over the bathroom door that hadn’t been there last night.

Wade was on the couch. Leg elevated on two pillows. Phone in his hand, posture suggesting a man who was comfortable, which meant he was in more pain than he’d admit to anyone, including himself.

Cara was beside the window. Arms crossed—carefully, because of the ribs. She was watching the driveway with the alertness of someone who’d spent too many years watching driveways, and doorways, and the middle distance where threats assembled before they arrived.

And Piper. Piper was at the kitchen counter with her textbook and a mechanical pencil and the kind of rigid, deliberate calm that told Gabe she was more scared than she’d ever been in her life and handled it the only way she knew how—solve for x until the world made sense again.

They’d arrived before supper.

Tom had flown through the front door before Gabe got the car parked. He pulled his daughter into the hug a father gave when he’s spent six hours imagining the worst. Piper, muffled against his shoulder: “Dad. I can’t breathe.”

Tom didn’t let up. “You’re gonna have to deal with that for a minute.”

That was last night. This morning, the space felt like a perimeter—drawn tight around the people inside it.

Wade was the one who brought it up. “What about Diane?” he asked, not looking up from his phone. As if it were an observation about the weather. “She’s still at the bakery. Alone.”

“I asked her,” Gabe said. “Before we left. Told her she could come up, or we could figure something else out. She said no.”

Cara’s face changed. It was subtle—a tightening around the eyes, the expression of someone who’d just realized they’d missed something they shouldn’t have. Diane was her employee. Sugar & Salt was her bakery. And Diane was there, exposed, because Cara’s investigation had put her in the path of people who hand-delivered surveillance photos of teenagers.

“We could shut it down for a while,” Cara said, her voice a little raw. “Close the bakery. It doesn’t need to be open. I should have thought of that before.”

But Wade was already up—slowly, favoring the knee, waving off Reagan’s look—and heading for the back bedroom with his phone. “Let me talk to her.”

When Wade came back, he was shaking his head with the expression of a man who’d just walked into a wall he should have seen coming.

“Stubborn woman,” he said. “Says she’s fine. Says she’ll call if she needs us.” He dropped back onto the couch, adjusted his leg. “But I was told to ‘not hold my breath.’”

He picked up his phone and muttered something Gabe didn’t catch.

Gabe poured a second cup of coffee he didn’t need and sat down across from Tom.

Tom’s fingers moved across the keyboard with the same speed as always, but the rhythm was off—sharp, percussive, the typing of a man who was angry at the keys.

Gabe had an idea he’d been chewing on during the long car trip. “Sara Medina,” he said.

Tom’s fingers paused. “Elena’s college roommate. Voss mentioned her.”

“We need to find her.”

Tom’s posture shifted. His breathing leveled. The typing changed—still fast, but with the focused rhythm Gabe recognized from the video calls, the one that meant he was locked in. Hunting.

The relief on Cara’s face alone was worth the trouble.

Twenty minutes later, Tom pulled up a screen, turned the laptop so Gabe could see.

“Sara Medina. Moved from Portland eight months ago. She’s in Cannon Beach—or just south of it. Small rental, off the main drag. Looks like she’s a writer. Hasn’t hit it big yet, though. She works part-time at a bookstore.”

Cara crossed from the window. She moved stiffly, holding her left side. She leaned over Gabe’s shoulder to read the screen.

“That’s forty minutes north,” she said.

“Give or take,” Tom said.