Axel met his eyes directly. “Better than zero. Sometimes that’s all we get.”
Chapter
Thirty
The bakery satdark and empty at four AM. Brie’s hands trembled as she unlocked the door, the keys jangling in the predawn silence. Hunter followed close behind, gym bag slung over his shoulder. In the kitchen, he set the bag on the stainless-steel prep table and unzipped it. He had professional bug detection equipment inside.
“Stay by the front door,” Hunter said quietly. “Watch for anyone outside.”
Brie positioned herself where she could see through the front windows to Main Street. Empty. Behind her, she heard Hunter moving methodically through the kitchen, the soft beep of electronics punctuating the silence.
He started with the kitchen, scanning every surface, checking behind appliances, running the wand along the underside of prep tables. The industrial mixer. The walk-in cooler. The storage shelves.
Next came the dining area. He checked under tables, behind picture frames, along the crown molding. The office received thesame treatment. Her desk, the filing cabinets, the vintage radio she kept on the shelf.
Twenty minutes passed. Brie watched the street gradually lighten from black to deep blue to gray. Still no cars. No pedestrians. No sign of surveillance.
Hunter emerged from the bathroom, the last room. “Nothing. The bakery is clean.”
Relief flooded through her, immediately followed by new anxiety. “Then how are they watching us?”
“External surveillance. Parked cars with sight lines to your windows. Maybe someone in the building across the street with binoculars. Could be customers reporting back.” He packed away the detection equipment. “But the important thing is they can’t see exactly what goes into each batch. Only what you do near the windows.”
The implication settled over her. Performance. She’d have to perform compliance. Hunter pulled glass vials identical to the ones containing Brennan’s poison from his bag.
“We fill these with water,” he said, lining up the empty vials. “You make a show of ‘poisoning’ batches where watchers might see. But you should make a few contaminated batches. Just in case.”
The logic was sound, but logic didn’t ease the sick feeling in her stomach. “If they catch the deception, Sophie dies immediately.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
At five fifteen, she forced herself to make the first contaminated batch of gingerbread cookies. She retrieved one real vial from the office, her hands shaking so badly the glass nearly slippedfrom her fingers. Brie positioned herself at the prep station in line with the front windows, where anyone watching from the street would have a clear view. She stared at the clear liquid that looked like water, like nothing, like something completely harmless.
She measured flour into the industrial mixer. Added butter, sugar, molasses. The familiar motions of gingerbread dough felt obscene with what came next. Her hands shook as she measured the poison according to Brennan’s precise instructions. Point-zero-five milliliters per hundred grams of dough.
The clear liquid disappeared into the mixing bowl. Invisible. Undetectable. Death wearing the mask of holiday cheer.
She started the mixer. The machine whirred to life, and the heavy paddle began its work. The poison distributed evenly through the dough. When the mixer stopped, the dough looked perfect. Smelled perfect. Would taste perfect.
She shaped cookies mechanically. Gingerbread bears with raisin eyes. Snowflakes with pearl sugar. Stars dusted with cinnamon. All beautiful. All deadly.
The timer dinged. She pulled them from the oven, and the smell hit her like a physical blow. Cinnamon, ginger, molasses, brown sugar. Everything that meant home and safety and childhood. Her mother’s recipes, perfected over decades, now weaponized.
She put them in a box and wrote a note taped to the lid: “DO NOT SELL.”
The box went on a shelf in her office, right at eye level where she’d see it constantly. A reminder of what she’d done. What she’d have to do again.
At six AM, Jake’s cheerful voice called from the front. “Morning, boss!”
Brie wiped her face quickly, checking that her eyes weren’t red. She forced brightness into her voice. “Morning!”
Jake appeared in the kitchen doorway, unwinding his scarf. “Is Sophie still sick?”
The lie came easier this time, which somehow made it worse. “She’s got a really bad flu. She’s going to be out for the rest of the week.”
“That sucks. Festival week too.” Jake shook his head sympathetically. “Should I bring her some soup or something?”
“Let’s give her space to rest. You know how she is when she’s sick.”
