I should let that pass.
Instead, because the bakery has damaged me beyond repair, I say, “Darlene would say refrigeration is also romantic.”
Evie laughs properly then, even through tears. The sound loosens the knot around my ribs enough for air to enter again.
“She would,” Evie says. “She’d make it filthy somehow.”
“Yes.”
“She contains multitudes.”
“She contains threats.”
“That too.”
We stand there, both pretending the moment has been safely folded away when it has not. I check the rear door. She counts the drawer again though she already counted it. We turn off lights. We avoid touching. We do not speak of Horus IV again that night.
But when I leave, she walks me to the rear entrance.
The alley smells of rain, concrete, and distant harbor salt. The bakery light spills around her, turning her hair gold in the doorway.
“Kauss,” she says.
I stop outside.
“You can come back tomorrow.”
The statement is simple. It is not about debt, repairs, locks, or danger.
I nod once. “I will.”
Her smile is small and tired and real. “Good.”
I walk into the dark with her touch still burning on my scar, and for the first time in years, Horus IV is not the only thing waiting for me when I close my eyes.
CHAPTER 13
EVIE
The morning after Kauss tells me about Horus IV, I burn the first tray of honey buns because apparently my hands still know how to work while my brain is busy lying to itself.
Smoke curls from the oven in a bitter gray ribbon, sharp enough to cut through the warm perfume of cinnamon, yeast, coffee, and orange glaze. The bakery windows are fogged at the edges from the morning heat, and the street outside glows dull silver beneath another coastal drizzle. Somewhere beyond the boarded side panel, a skiff engine coughs, catches, and whines toward the harbor. Inside, the ovens roar, the old pipes tick behind the walls, and my traitorous heart keeps replaying the memory of Kauss standing beneath the kitchen light while I touched the scar on his face.
I yank the tray out and set it on the counter too hard.
The honey buns are not merely overdone. They are murdered. The tops are blackened, the glaze has fused to the parchment, and the whole tray smells like sugar committing a crime.
Darlene looks up from the coffee urn. She takes in the tray, then me, then the tray again.
“Well,” she says. “Those are dead.”
“I know.”
“Did they confess anything before the end?”
“I was distracted.”
“No kidding.”
