Page 14

He studies me for a moment and shrugs. "They were making assumptions."

"You still didn't have to step in."

"No," he agrees quietly.

Something warm settles unexpectedly in my chest. I look away — safer that way — and adjust my bag. "Well. I appreciate it."

A comfortable pause settles between us. Not awkward, not tense. Just comfortable, which surprises me, because comfort isn't something I expected to find in Brock Winn's company.

I glance up. His gaze is already on me, and for a second we remain in place. Something shifts — small, subtle, noticeable enough that I feel it in my chest.

Then someone calls his name from across the hall.

"I should go," he says, looking back at me once more.

"Right."

He gives a short nod. "Goodnight, Juniper."

The use of my name takes me completely unaware, and a smile appears before I can stop it. Goodnight, Brock."

The look in his eyes as he turns away follows me all the way home.

8

BROCK

The library is quiet. Exactly how I like it — no gossip, no interruptions, no well-meaning residents relaying something they heard from a cousin who heard it from a friend. Just facts.

I spread the files across one of the large wooden tables near the back wall. Complaint reports, delivery records, customer statements, copies of the forged health warnings, inspection notes, inventory reports. Everything collected since arriving in Maple Hollow. Most people would see a mess. I see pieces. The question is whether they belong to the same puzzle.

I pull a legal pad closer and begin writing names — customers, businesses, delivery companies, wholesale merchants. Every complaint gets its own line, every source gets another. Then I start drawing connections. One complaint links to a delivery company, another to a customer, a third to a wholesale merchant. I study the information, rearrange it. The pattern remains frustratingly unclear.

I flip through another report. Then another. Hours of investigation have taught me one thing with certainty — nothing about Sweetbell Bakery's situation is random. There are too many moving pieces, too many coincidences, and coincidences rarely survive scrutiny.

I circle a merchant name. Then another. My attention sharpens.

I reach for a second file. The same company appears again — not directly, indirectly, connected through another customer. A third report yields the same result. A fourth. The quiet satisfaction of discovery settles in me.

I pull every file connected to the merchant and arrange them side by side. Complaints, canceled contracts, questionable deliveries — several paths lead back to the same wholesale operation. Not every single one. Enough. More than enough.

I lean back, slowly rocking the chair. The merchant supplies products across several nearby towns, a large and established operation, exactly the type of business nobody thinks to question. Someone connected to it is coordinating this. Maybe not all of it, but enough of it. The realization feels significant — the first genuine breakthrough since this investigation began.

I close the final file. One question remains.

Does Juniper know them?

The bell above Sweetbell Bakery's door rings as I step inside, and the scent of cinnamon greets me immediately, along with Juniper Bell. She stands behind the counter reviewing paperwork, a pencil tucked behind one ear, several loose strands of hair having escaped whatever attempt she made to contain them. She looks up, surprise flashing across her face before curiosity follows.

"Brock."

I stop walking. The use of my first name still catches my attention. Not unpleasantly.

"I need information," I say.

She sets down the papers. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

I watch her closely. Juniper smiles, and the smile widens when she realizes I have no response prepared. Unfortunately, she's right. That probably is the most romantic thing I've said to anyone recently.