Everything in me goes very quiet. Murder. Killer.
Of course.Of course.
Of all the places he could have come… he comes here.
In my head, I spiral.Lucky Ella. Just had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. If there’s a killer in the city, he’ll follow me home. If there’s a psychopath, he’ll sit in my bakery. Jackpot.
He shifts his weight, eyes flicking briefly towards the front windows before landing back on me. “Has he come back? Since that day?” I shake my head, “No. I haven’t seen him since.”
Finally, without another word, the man stands. His boots on tile are too heavy, too final. He reaches the door, pauses with his hand on the knob, then turns back.
“Oh, almost forgot.” He pulls out his wallet, withdraws a business card, and extends it.
“If you think of anything else or see him again, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.”
I take the card, hand trembling. As he opens the door and steps through, my gaze falls on the name.
Taylor Pierce
Private Investigator
The words blur. My pulse roars in my ears. “No freaking way… Ashton! Get the fuck over here!” My voice cracks so loudly I startle myself.
She pops her head out from the kitchen, eyebrows raised. “Did you just swear? You never swear. Should I call someone?”
“Get over here. Now.” I shove the card into her face. “Read this.”
Her eyes flick downward. She freezes. Then her lips part, and she mouths, “What the fuck?
That silly Instagram search was wrong. Nathan’sTaylor Pierceisn’t a woman.
It’s a man and is a private investigator. And he’s been texting Nathan.
Ashton’s brain clearly has gone into overdrive. She’s muttering theories, tossing out connections, spinning webs I can’t catch. But before I can even process further, she’s grabbing her bag.
“Midterms. I have to go,” she says. Then she winks. “You’ll be fine.”
I want to grab her sleeve, beg her not to leave. But she’s already gone.
The bakery, usually warm, has turned hollow without her.
Every creak in the ceiling sounds like a footstep. The shadows seem longer, darker, stretching across the tile.
Get a grip, Ella. It’s just a shop. Just walls and bread.
But my body refuses to listen.
I lock the door with shaky fingers, checking it twice. Relief swells.
Until a bark splits the silence.
A dog lunges at the glass, teeth bared. I shriek, nearly dropping my keys.
“Sorry!” its owner calls, tugging it away.
My laugh is brittle, hysterical. I shake it off.
Moments later, I’ve switched off all the lights to my haunted bakery and locked the door from the outside. And now I start power walking.
