Chapter 10 Hannah #2
The garbage bag slipped from her numb fingers.
Coffee grounds and eggshells spilled across the pavement, but Hannah couldn't look away from those stark red letters.
They seemed to pulse in the morning light, ugly and raw against the warm brick her grandmother had pointed to with such pride when she'd first opened the bakery.
"Quite a show you Everetts put on."
The voice made her spin around. Michael Harrison stood at the mouth of the alley, his hands tucked into the pockets of his suit.
She remembered him just last week—standing in her bakery, that warm Harrison smile as he'd talked about expanding the pharmacy. He'd ordered his usual coffee, told her how lucky she was to have such a brilliant father.
That warmth was gone now. His eyes were hard as he looked at her, then at the graffiti.
"I'm losing the pharmacy. Did you know that?"
"Michael." Her voice came out steady, surprising her. "I'm so sorry about—"
"Sorry?" His laugh was sharp enough to cut. "You're sorry now that everyone knows? Now that you can't keep pretending?"
Hannah's spine stiffened. "I didn't—"
"Don't." He took a step into the alley. "Don't you dare say you didn't know.
" Another step. "Your father sat across from me three days ago, promising everything was fine.
That the investment was secure. That the pharmacy expansion was still on track.
" His voice cracked. "And you were there, Hannah.
You were right there, pouring coffee, taking notes. "
The wall was cold against Hannah's back. She hadn't realized she was retreating until she hit brick.
"You had to know," he continued, each word precise and cutting. "The way money moved through this place. The paperwork you signed. The meetings you sat in on. What did you think was happening?"
"I thought he was helping people," Hannah whispered. "He was always helping people—"
"Helping?" All the emotion drained from his voice. "Is that what you call it? My mother's retirement fund. My sister's college savings. The loan for the pharmacy expansion—all gone. And you expect me to believe you just served coffee and smiled and never questioned where all that money came from?"
"Michael, please—"
"Your father looked me in the eye on Monday and said everything was fine." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "And you stood there, Hannah. You smiled. You knew they were coming for him, and you smiled."
"I didn't know about any of it!"
"Right." He straightened his jacket, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "You just accidentally signed all those transfer documents. Just accidentally sat in on all those meetings. Just accidentally helped destroy half the families in Crystal Lake."
He turned to leave, then paused. "You know what's funny? I actually liked you, Hannah. Trusted you. Guess that makes me as stupid as everyone else in this town."
He walked away, leaving Hannah with the red letters screaming behind her and coffee grounds scattered at her feet.
Her hands didn't shake as she went inside for cleaning supplies. Didn't shake as she scrubbed at the paint until her fingers were raw and red. Didn't shake as she scraped away yet another piece of her world.
But when she finally stepped back, arms aching and chest tight, she could still see the ghost of those letters bleeding through.
THIEF.
Hannah lifted her chin and went back inside. She had bread to bake, a business to run. She wasn't going to let this town see her break.
But she made sure to lock the back door.
And this time, her hands did shake on the deadbolt.
Hannah was still scrubbing red paint from her hands when the bell above the front door chimed. She didn't turn—couldn't bear to see another former friend come to cancel an order or deliver judgment.
"What can I get you?" she called out, her voice raw from holding back tears.
"Hannah."
Every muscle in her body locked at that voice. Jake's voice. The one that used to mean safety, used to mean home. Now it felt like another weapon aimed at her heart.
She heard his footsteps—measured, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. The sound of his expensive dress shoes against her hardwood floors was wrong. Everything about him was wrong now.
"Don't." The word scraped her throat. She still hadn't turned around.
The footsteps stopped. "I wanted to make sure you're okay."
A bitter laugh escaped before she could stop it.
She finally turned, and the sight of him hit her like a physical blow.
Jake stood in his crisp FBI suit, badge glinting at his belt—Special Agent Jacob Cooper, not the man who'd fixed her sink, who'd held her through storms, who'd whispered "I love you" against her skin.
"Okay?" Her voice shook. "You want to know if I'm okay?"
He took a step forward. She jerked back, bumping the counter. A container of utensils clattered to the floor, spatulas and whisks scattering across the tiles.
Jake moved automatically to help, but Hannah's voice cracked like a whip: "Don't touch anything."
His hands froze mid-reach. "Hannah, please—"
"Are you here to arrest me?" The words came out raw, ragged. "Or just gathering more evidence?"
"That's not—" He straightened, and she saw the muscle working in his jaw. "I'm here because I care about—"
"Please." She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold in the scream building in her chest. "Don't you dare say you care. Don't you dare stand there in that suit, with that badge, and pretend any of it was real."
Jake's face did something complicated—pain or guilt or both. "It wasn't all a lie."
"Really?" Hannah gestured at his FBI badge. "Which part was real, Special Agent Cooper? When you fixed my sink to get close to me? When you made me fall in—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. "When you held me all those nights while you were planning on destroying my life?"
"Hannah—"
"Get out." She was shaking now, fine tremors she couldn't control. "Get out of my bakery."
He didn't move. Of course he didn't. Even now, he was looking for ways to fix things—she could see it in the way his hands twitched at his sides, the way his eyes caught on her trembling fingers.
She stepped back, too fast, hitting the shelving behind her. "I said get—"
The rest of her words died as Jake suddenly moved closer, crowding her space. For a moment, she thought he was going to touch her—grab her, hold her, kiss her. Her body remembered his warmth, betraying her with an instinctive lean toward him before she caught herself.
But he was just reaching past her to steady a shelf she'd knocked crooked in her retreat.
"Don't." Her voice cracked on the word. "You don't get to do that anymore."
Jake's hand dropped. He stepped back, and the loss of his warmth felt like another betrayal. "I never meant to—"
"To what? Get caught?" Hannah's laugh was hollow. "To let me find out the truth? That everything between us was just a way to get to my father?"
"Not everything." The words were rough, like they'd been torn from him. "Hannah, not everything was—"
"Get out." She turned away, unable to look at him anymore. Unable to see the man she loved wearing the face of the man who'd destroyed her. "Just get out."
She didn't turn around again until she heard the bell chime, until his footsteps faded away. Only then did she let herself slide to the floor, surrounded by scattered utensils and the ghost of his warmth.
Not everything was a lie, he'd said.
But that just made it worse.
Because now she'd never know which parts to believe.