Page 60 of Undertow

“Dead drops.”

“Exactly. At the end of one chain, a payment to a lab supply company Tom thinks is connected to the compound.” Reagan held up a flannel. Cara shook her head. “Graham’s signature is on the authorizing documents. His office approved every transfer. On paper, he’s the man funneling Foundation money to whoever made the drug they used on his own niece.”

Graham Whitfield, using family money—Elena’s family’s money—to fund the thing that erased her.

“But Tom can’t get everything from the hotel,” Cara said.

“The digital trail only goes so far. The corporate filings reference physical records—contracts, countersigned agreements, original memos. Tom says the kind of paper that proves who actually authorized what, not just whose name got stamped on a form.” Reagan found a charcoal blazer, checked the label, draped it over her arm. “That paper is in the Foundation’s office. Nob Hill. Sixteenth floor.”

Reagan glanced at her. “Which is why we’re shopping at eight in the morning instead of sleeping like ordinary people.”

Cara pulled a sport coat off the rack. Slate blue, decent cut She tpictured Gabe’s shoulders and put the jacket in the cart without comment.

“So,” Reagan said. “Are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what.”

“The ten-hour drive down the I-5 with Gabe. The fact that you came in last night looking like someone had read you your rights.”

Cara studied a bright yellow tee shirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cara.”

“We drove. We dropped off the vial. We drove some more. It was scenic.”

Reagan stopped walking. Turned. Gave her the look. “Whatever you talked about, it clearly didn’t end well. I could read it on both of you in about two seconds.”

Cara said nothing. Examined a pair of boots.

“Fine.” Reagan grinned. “I’ll just make you do it later.”

They moved on. Two more stores. Pants, shirts, shoes—everything. Cara knew too well that clothes made the man when you were running a job. The wrong shoes, a cheap watch, a collar that didn’t sit right—any of those was a tell, and tells got you caught.

Five minutes after they returned, the hotel room looked like a department store had exploded. They’d brought new looks for everyone. Tom, Piper and Elena would stay back while Reagan, Cara, Wade and Gabe ran the caper, but she and Reagan figured they should all change up their appearances.

Bags everywhere. Tissue paper. Tags. Piper sat cross-legged on the air mattress holding a vintage leather jacket she’d pulled from the pile. She’d paired it with a black tee and boots that had no business on a sixteen-year-old from a coastal Oregon town, and when she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, the grin that crossed her face was pure, uncomplicated joy—the kind that only happens when you’re young enough to believe that the right jacket can change your life.

Tom looked up from his laptops. “Absolutely not.”

“Too late,” Piper said.

Cara handed over outfits. Tom got a button-down with the sleeves already rolled. Piper studied him critically. “You look like a hacker cosplaying as someone with a 401(k).”

Her dad pressed a hand to his heart. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Gabe took the sport coat without comment. Tried it on. Cara had guessed the shoulders—it fit like she’d known his measurements. He turned, checking the hang of it in the mirror.

She busied herself with Elena.

The woman stood at the edge of the bed where Cara had laid out options and touched the fabrics one at a time. The silk blouse: too corporate. That was Graham’s world, the Foundation galas, the life she’d been erased from. The tailored blazer: too sharp. She flinched from it.

They went boho. Layered textures, warm colors, an oversized linen jacket over a vintage print—artist throwback, eighties by way of something older and softer. When Elena looked at herself, her eyes brightened for a moment.

Wade held his blazer at arm’s length like it was a dead animal.

“I’ll look like a realtor,” he said.

“Exactly,” Cara said. “You look like a guy who owns property and has opinions about interest rates. Nobody’s going to look at you twice in Nob Hill.”