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"Helpful."

I ignore that. "The signatures are disguised. The magical markers don't match the identities attached to them."

Her expression shifts instantly — confusion becoming focus, focus becoming concern. "Meaning?"

"Meaning somebody altered them."

Juniper looks down at the files. "Can somebody do that?"

"Somebody already did."

She sits back. The movement rattles several papers, and none of us notices. My attention stays on the signatures, and the deeper I dig, the worse it looks — each complaint carries traces of manipulation, subtle and professional and deliberate, enough to avoid casual detection and hide the real source. Whoever is doing this understands investigative procedures. They're careful, patient, and experienced. Not somebody acting on impulse.

Juniper watches me, the concern in her eyes deepening. "Can you identify the source?"

I nod my head. "No." The answer frustrates me more than I'd like, because I should be able to. The evidence is right here, yet the trail vanishes every time I get close. Like smoke slipping through fingers.

"So somebody is hiding behind fake signatures, filing complaints, spreading rumors." she mutters.

"Most likely."

The library grows quiet. Juniper stares at the paperwork, then at me, then back again. "What happens now?"

"I continue investigating."

Her eyes narrow immediately. "No."

I sigh. There it is. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You were going to tell me to stay out of it."

I remain silent. Juniper points triumphantly. "See?"

Unfortunately, she's right. Again. A disturbing pattern. "This situation is becoming dangerous," I say.

She leans back in her chair. "I'm aware."

"I don't think you are." That wipes the amusement from her face. Good, because this isn't amusing. "The complaints are manipulated. The signatures are hidden. The source remains unknown." I hold her gaze. "Which means everyone is a suspect."

the sentence stays between us. For once, Juniper doesn't respond immediately. She studies the table — the evidence, the complaints, the forged documents, all of it. Then she lifts her chin.

"I still want to help."

The answer doesn't surprise me. Not anymore. Most people would run from this. Juniper Bell keeps walking toward it.

"It's your business," I say.

"I know."

"If you get caught in the middle of this investigation—" I pause to catch my breath, "The damage could be catastrophic."

Her jaw tightens. "I know." The repetition frustrates me, not because she's wrong, but because she understands exactly what's at stake and refuses to retreat. Part of me admires it. Another part wants to lock her inside the bakery until this is over, and that second part is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Juniper reaches across the table and taps one of the complaint files. "This person is trying to destroy my livelihood." Her voice stays calm, steady, controlled. "I've already lost contracts, lost customers, lost inventory." The determination in her eyes grows stronger. "So no, Brock. I'm not stepping aside."

A strange warmth calms in my chest — pride, admiration, something else entirely. Something more dangerous. Most people break when pressure reaches this point. Juniper refuses.

"You're stubborn," I comment.