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"I know."

"I worked for this." I grunt.

"I didn't do anything wrong." The words come out shattered and desperate, and his answer is the same two words, quietly certain, and somehow the simplicity of it makes everything worse and better at the same time.

I turn inside his hold and his hands move to my shoulders, his gaze locking onto mine — steady, certain, present and doesn't falter. "I'm losing everything." The confession hangs between us and Brock studies me, and then something softens in his expression.

"If nobody buys your cupcakes," he says, "I'll buy them."

I watch him. A tear slides down my cheek. "What?"

His mouth twitches. "I'll buy every single cupcake."

Despite everything, a soft laugh escapes me — small, broken, real. "Brock."

"I'm serious."

"You can't eat that many cupcakes."

"I'll learn."

Another laugh escapes and the tears remain, and the combination feels absurd, and Brock doesn't seem to mind any of it. He reaches up and wipes a tear from my cheek, and the gesture stills me completely. "Every day," he continues quietly. "Every single one."

My throat tightens, and this time it isn't from sadness. Something warmer moves through me instead, something more dangerous, "That's a terrible business strategy."

"Maybe."

A smile surfaces — tiny, but real — and I let myself have it for a moment before reality settles back down. "The town is dividing," I say, and the smile vanishes. "People are choosing sides. Soon I won't have a business to fight for." The words sound terrifying spoken aloud, because part of me believes them. Maybe all of me does.

Brock steps closer, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from him. "Listen to me." I do, because it's Brock, because somewhere along the course of this investigation he became the one person I always listen to without having to decide to. "We are going to finish this." The firmness in his voice doesn't sound performed or reassuring in that hollow way people reassure you when they don't know what else to say. It sounds real — steady and unshakable and entirely his.

I want to believe him. More than anything.

Standing on the edge of my ruined kitchen, surrounded by broken dishes and scattered pieces of my composure, something becomes clear that I haven't been willing to look at directly. Brock isn't just helping me survive this anymore. Somewhere between the arguments and the late nights and the files spread across library tables, he became the person I'm leaning on to get through it.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

But I'm not letting go of it either.

18

BROCK

The drive to headquarters gives me too much time to think — not about the investigation, not about the missing evidence, not even about the growing financial trail. Juniper keeps finding her way into my thoughts instead. The look on her face in the kitchen, the tears, the way she laughed through them when I offered to buy every cupcake in the bakery. The memory settles heavily in my chest, and I don't like how much it affects me, which is probably why it keeps happening.

Headquarters comes into view. The stone building sits exactly where it always has — cold, efficient, unimpressed by human problems. I park and head inside. Several inspectors pass through the corridors, a few nod and most don't, and nobody looks particularly happy to be here. That part never changes.

I stop outside a familiar office and knock once. "Enter."

Three men sit inside. Director Vance occupies the center chair, Councilor Anslem sits to his right, and Councilor Winn sits opposite him. All three look up and immediately focus on me. Vance gestures toward the empty chair. "Inspector Winn."

I sit. Nobody smiles — again, normal.

Vance folds his hands together. "Is the situation in Maple Hollow resolved?"

The question arrives so directly that I almost laugh. "No."

Anslem glances toward a file. "The complaints continue?"