Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

My eyes snap open. Panic floods my system as I realize I can’t breathe properly. I try to gasp, but my mouth won’t open. My heart pounds as I force myself to breathe through my nose. As I do, a potent smell invades my lungs. Gasoline.

The scent triggers a coughing fit, and I instinctively try to move my hand to my mouth. It doesn’t budge. With a jolt of fear, I realize my hands are bound behind my back. I’m sitting upright, the hard surface beneath me familiar.

Calm down, Reese. I will myself to relax, taking in the gasoline-infused air more slowly. As my breathing steadies, I become aware of a throbbing pain radiating from my right temple down behind my ear. I’ve been hit—hard.

Confusion mingles with the fear as I try to piece together what’s happened. Why am I here? What happened to my head? I think, blinking quickly as I try to understand. And it all comes back to me—the threatening messages, the break-in at the shop.

Whoever has been sending those messages is here right now.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply, trying to remember what I saw when I got back here. It was just a flash, just for a moment: pale blonde hair, blue eyes.

Charlotte, I think . It has to be Charlotte.

The room is dark, but there’s just enough light coming from the front of the shop for me to see. I need to get out of here. I try to move, but when I do, a sharp pain runs around my wrists. That’s when I realize I’m not just on the floor—I’m seated in one of the chairs from the cake tasting room. It’s been moved to the kitchen, out of place among the stainless steel counters and baking equipment.

My wrists have been zip-tied to the wooden arms of the chairs with brutal efficiency. The plastic digs into my skin, sending jolts of pain up my arms with every slight movement. I can feel the back of the chair pressing against my spine, a lump of fabric bunched up behind me. My ankles are bound to the chair legs so tightly that my heartbeat feels like it’s pulsing in my feet. I strain against the bonds, the chair creaking beneath me, but it’s useless.

I’m trapped.

My eyes dart around the room, desperate for something that might help me. I’m sitting inside the kitchen of my bakery, a large square room with ovens flanking one wall and metal racks on the other. In the center of the room is a large stainless steel prep station with storage underneath. I glance over to the sink on the opposite wall where a collection of knives are hanging from a strip of magnet against the wall. If only I could reach those knives.

Suddenly, I hear a rustling toward the back of the shop where my office is. I try to scream, to make any kind of noise, but it just sounds like muffled grunting with my mouth covered in what I assume is duct tape.

I look down at my wrists again, struggling against the restraints. That’s when I realize I’m still in my wedding dress. My mind reels with the realization. Wedding dress.

Tucker! The wedding! The thought hits me like a bolt of lightning. Oh no, I’ve got to get out of here. The wedding. Everyone is waiting for me.

Panic surges through my body as I picture the scene—guests seated in rows, murmuring in confusion. Tucker standing at the altar, his face a mix of worry and disappointment. My mother, his parents, all our friends—everyone we love, waiting. For me. And I’m here, tied to a chair in my own bakery.

This can’t be happening.

I struggle harder against the restraints, ignoring the pain as the zip ties cut into my wrists. My muscles strain as I pull against the bonds, but they don’t budge. Tears of frustration and fear begin to well up in my eyes. On top of the table I catch the glint of my phone. Its plastic case begins to vibrate, sending a rippling sound through the room. I strain my neck to see the caller. Tucker. I try to scream again, as if somehow he could hear me, which is silly. I try to scoot the entire chair forward, but the hem of my dress is tangled up in the chair legs.

A new sound stops me. It sounds like swishing and the splash of liquid splattering on the floor. Then a fresh wave of gasoline assaults my nostrils. My brain processes this and comes to a chilling conclusion: Charlotte’s here and she’s pouring gasoline all over my shop. Which can only mean one thing— she’s about to set the place on fire. I struggle harder, trying to break through the zip ties, but it’s pointless. I can hardly move. My phone has gone silent.

I try to think and remember what happened when I got here. Bernie sent me a text message. She said there was smoke, a fire. She said she’d meet me here.

But the shop was empty.

I told the limousine driver to come back once he spoke with Tucker. I hope he’s still coming. Bernie isn’t here, obviously. From what I can hear—footsteps in the next room— it’s Charlotte. And she wants to hurt me. Seconds crawl by as I listen to the sound of footsteps weaving in and out of each room.

And the awful sound on repeat. Splash, splash, splash.

My eyes flit back to my phone lying quietly on the table. If I could get closer, maybe I could work the phone with the tip of my nose. It’s worth a shot. I push my shoulders forward and try to stand on my feet. But the ground is slippery, covered in what I presume is the gasoline, so my feet sweep from underneath and I fall to the ground with a hard thud. Pain shoots up my arm and the throbbing on my head gets worse. I moan through the duct tape.

As I hit the ground, I notice something on the floor—the note, the letter that I found when I got here. I try to make noises again, grunting sounds. If Charlotte’s really here, maybe she’ll actually talk to me. Maybe I can explain what happened and try to understand why she wants to stop the wedding, try to reason with her at least.

I keep making noise, and eventually, the footsteps head my way. The sound of each step is excruciating as I wait; each second is another click, click, click . Finally, the person who has been threatening me, who dumped gasoline all over my shop, who slammed me with some blunt object on the side of my head and tied me up, is standing before me.

If my mouth wasn’t taped shut, I would have audibly gasped for air. Instead, I draw a sharp inhale through my nostrils. Because it’s not Charlotte standing there in front of me.

It’s someone else entirely.