Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
CHARLES
The rhythmic motion of chopping vegetables was exactly what I needed. Onions first, diced small and uniform, then carrots cut into perfect little rounds, celery sliced thin. Each cut was precise, controlled, the sharp blade moving through the vegetables with satisfying efficiency.
Beef bourguignon wasn’t exactly quick weeknight fare, but that was the point.
I needed something that would keep my hands and mind busy for hours.
Something that required attention to detail and patience—two things that might help me forget that a murderous mob boss had been standing in my bakery a few hours ago, smiling at me with those cold, calculating eyes.
The beef had been searing in my heavy Dutch oven for the past ten minutes, filling the kitchen with the rich scent of caramelized meat and red wine.
I’d already rendered the bacon until it was perfectly crispy, setting it aside to add back in later, and now I was building the base of the stew—onions and carrots going translucent in the bacon fat, a generous splash of burgundy to deglaze the pan, fresh thyme and bay leaves for depth.
This was my sanctuary. In here, surrounded by the familiar tools of my trade and the comforting aromas of a meal slowly coming together, I could almost pretend everything was normal.
That I wasn’t hiding from a killer. That the gorgeous man currently pacing around my back porch wasn’t a cop assigned to keep me alive.
That the flutter in my chest every time he looked at me wasn’t getting stronger by the hour.
I added the beef back to the pot, along with enough wine and stock to barely cover it, then slid the whole thing into the oven.
Three hours at a low simmer, and it would be perfect—tender meat falling apart at the touch of a fork, vegetables melting into a rich, velvety sauce that would make you forget all your troubles. At least, that was the theory.
I was washing my hands when I heard the back door open, followed by the heavy tread of Eamon’s boots across the hardwood floor. Something about his footsteps sounded different—more urgent, less relaxed than they’d been when he’d stepped out to take his call.
“Everything smells incredible in here,” he said from behind me, but his voice was tight.
I turned around, drying my hands on a dish towel, and immediately, I knew something was very wrong. Eamon’s face had gone pale beneath his stubble, and there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there twenty minutes ago.
“What happened?” I asked, my stomach dropping like a stone.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking like he was trying to figure out where to start. “We need to sit down.”
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
I followed him into the living room, my heart starting to race again. What could’ve possibly happened? I’d just started to feel like maybe, possibly, we might have bought ourselves some time with my lie to Carlo. But the expression on Eamon’s face said otherwise.
“Carlo went to the banquet hall after he left your bakery,” Eamon said.
My blood turned to ice water. “Oh god. Is he okay? Steve, I mean— Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine. Physically. But, Charles…” Eamon leaned forward, his green eyes dark with what looked like guilt. “He told Carlo the truth about when you were there. The real timeline.”
The room tilted sideways. I gripped the arm of my chair, trying to stay upright as the implications hit me like a freight train. “What exactly did he say?”
“That you arrived around nine-thirty, not nine. That he saw you leave when he came back from getting chairs at ten-fifteen.” Eamon’s voice was gentle but relentless. “Carlo knows you lied to him. Which means he knows you’re the one who overheard his conversation.”
I couldn’t breathe. The careful story I’d constructed, the timeline Eamon had made me practice until I could recite it in my sleep—all of it was worthless now. Because Steve, sweet, honest Steve, who couldn’t lie to save his life, had unknowingly signed my death warrant.
“This is my fault,” I said, the words coming out strangled. “I should’ve told Steve what to say. I should’ve warned him—”
“No.” Eamon’s voice was sharp. “This is not your fault. We both know Steve wouldn’t have been able to lie convincingly. It was only a matter of time before Carlo discovered the truth.”
“But Steve’s in danger now too, isn’t he? If Carlo thinks he might know something—”
“Steve’s being watched. Protected. He’ll be fine.”
“By who?” I looked at him sharply. “You keep saying people are being protected, but you’re just one detective. How do you have the resources for all this surveillance?”
Something flickered across Eamon’s face—that same brief panic I’d noticed before when his cover story didn’t quite hold up. “I’ve got backup. Other officers.”
Another non-answer. Another deflection. But I was too terrified to push for details right now. “What happens next?” I asked instead.
Eamon was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands. “We have to leave. Tonight.”
“Leave?” The word came out as barely a whisper.
“I’ve got a safe house lined up. Remote, off the grid. Somewhere Carlo’s people will never find you.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. “For how long?”
“A few days. Maybe a week. The NYPD is close to having enough evidence to arrest Carlo, but they need a little more time.”
“A week.” I felt numb, disconnected from my own voice. “I can’t disappear for a week, Eamon. I have a business. Employees. Customers who depend on me.”
“You have a life depending on you. Your life. Which won’t mean much if you’re dead.”
The bluntness of it hit me like a slap. He was right.
Logically, I understood that staying here was essentially suicide.
But the thought of abandoning everything I’d worked for, everyone who counted on me, made me feel sick.
“What about Dani? She can’t run the bakery by herself for a week.
And I’ve got three cakes due next weekend—”
“Charles.” Eamon moved to the couch beside me, his large hands covering mine. “I know this is hard. I know it feels like you’re giving up everything you’ve built. But none of that matters if you’re not alive to enjoy it.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. I would not fall apart. Not when Eamon needed me to be strong, to be brave. “How remote are we talking?”
“A cabin in the Adirondacks. No cell service, no internet. Just you, me, and nature, which will be gorgeous this time of year.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled at that. “You really know how to sell a vacation destination.”
“It’s temporary. I swear to you, Charles, this is temporary. Once Carlo’s in custody, you can come home, and things can go back to normal.”
Normal. Right. Because after this week of hiding in the woods with my fake boyfriend, whom I was definitely falling for, everything would magically return to the way it was before.
“I need to pack,” I said, standing abruptly.
“And call Dani. Figure out how to explain why I’m suddenly disappearing without actually explaining anything.
And then I’ll have to call around and see who can make those wedding cakes for me because I’m not canceling on those without offering a solution.
It would destroy the reputation I’ve worked so hard to build. ”
Eamon nodded. “I understand. We have a few hours, but we have to leave tonight.”
A few hours. A few hours to pack up my life and leave everything I cared about behind. Just enough time to finish the beef bourguignon, but not to eat it—a perfect metaphor for how this day had gone.
I started with Dani, my hands shaking as I dialed her number.
“Hey, boss,” she answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“I need you to listen carefully,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I have a family emergency, and I need to leave town tonight. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—maybe a week, maybe longer.”
“Oh my god, Charles, what happened? Is everyone okay?”
The concern in her voice made my chest tight with guilt. “I can’t really explain right now, but I need you to handle the shop while I’m gone. Can you call Judith and see if she can work more hours?”
“Of course, but, Charles—”
“There are three cakes due this weekend,” I continued, pushing through before I lost my nerve. “The Hendersons’ anniversary cake, the Morrison wedding, and that elaborate princess cake for the eight-year-old’s birthday party. I’m going to try to find someone to cover them, but if I can’t…”
“We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about the bakery. Just take care of whatever’s going on with your family.”
The easy lie I’d told felt like acid in my throat. “Thank you. I’ll call you as soon as I can with more details.”
Next came the harder calls—reaching out to other bakers in the area, swallowing my pride to ask for help from competitors who might see this as an opportunity to steal my clients.
“Sarah? It’s Charles Garrity from Sweet Relief…
I know this is last-minute, but I have a family emergency, and I’m wondering if you might be able to take on a few cakes this weekend… ”
Most of them were surprisingly understanding.
Sarah at Buttercream Delight agreed to take the Morrison wedding cake, though she couldn’t match my signature rose design.
Tom from the bakery in Hudson said he could handle the anniversary cake if I emailed him the specifications.
The princess cake was trickier—it required specialized fondant work that not every baker could pull off.
Finally, I swallowed my pride and called my biggest competitor, a high-end bakery in Albany that had tried to poach several of my clients over the years.
“Marcus? It’s Charles Garrity… Yes, I know we don’t usually…
Look, I have an emergency, and I need someone to cover a cake.
I’ll pay you double your rate if you can help me out. ”
Twenty minutes and three phone calls later, all my weekend orders were covered. It would cost me most of my profit margin for the next two months, but my clients would get their cakes, and my reputation would remain intact.
“All sorted?” Eamon asked as I hung up from my final call.
“As sorted as it can be.” I rubbed my temples, feeling the beginning of a stress headache. “My employees think I have a family emergency, my weekend orders are being handled by other bakers, and I’m about to disappear into the wilderness with a man I barely know.”
“You know me,” Eamon said quietly.
I looked at him—really looked at him—taking in the concern in his green eyes, the way he’d moved closer without me noticing, the protective set of his shoulders. “Do I? Because sometimes I feel like I’m only seeing pieces of who you really are.”
Something flickered across his expression, too quick for me to identify. “You see the parts that matter.”
It wasn’t exactly an answer, but it would have to do. I had bigger problems right now than trying to decode the mystery that was Eamon O’Rourke.
I made it halfway up the stairs before the reality of it all hit me like a tidal wave. I sank down onto the steps, pressing my face into my hands as my carefully maintained composure finally cracked.
I was running for my life. Hiding from a killer who wanted me dead because I’d tried to do the right thing. In one week, my perfectly ordered existence had been turned completely upside down, and now I was fleeing into the wilderness with a man whose entire identity might be a lie.
“Charles?” Eamon’s voice was soft, concerned. I looked up to find him standing at the bottom of the stairs, his expression gentle.
“I’m terrified…”
He climbed the steps slowly, settling beside me on the narrow staircase. “I know.”
“What if they never catch him? What if it takes months instead of days or a week?”
“That won’t happen.” The certainty in Eamon’s voice was absolute. “I won’t let it.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can, and I am.” He turned to face me fully, his green eyes blazing with fierce determination. “I will keep you safe, Charles. Whatever it takes, however long it takes. That’s a promise.”
The intensity of his gaze made my breath catch. There was something in his expression that went beyond professional duty, beyond the obligations of a cop protecting a witness. Something that looked almost like…
But I couldn’t let myself think about that. Not now, when everything was falling apart.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Let’s go pack.”
I had been right—we’d had just enough time for the beef bourguignon to finish.
Eamon had assured me the cabin had a stove, so I had put the whole Dutch oven in a crate to bring it with us so we could eat it later.
Instead, I’d made some quick sandwiches for us, so we could eat and pack at the same time.
And of course I’d carefully packed up Wolfgang.
No way in hell was I leaving him behind.
It was almost eight by the time we left in Eamon’s BMW.
I-87 stretched ahead of us, dark and almost deserted, leading toward an uncertain future and a remote cabin where I’d be alone with Eamon for days on end.
Despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the complete upheaval of my existence—a tiny part of me was looking forward to that aspect, which probably said something very revealing about my current state of mind.
Or maybe it said something about how I felt about Eamon, but that was something I didn’t want to think too deeply about.
“You okay?” Eamon asked, glancing over at me as we merged onto the thruway north.
I watched the lights of Charming disappear in the side mirror, taking with them everything familiar and safe. “Ask me in a week.”
He reached over and squeezed my hand, his fingers warm and strong against mine. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
I wanted to believe him. As we drove north into the darkness, leaving behind my home, my business, my carefully constructed life, I desperately wanted to believe that somehow, impossibly, everything would work out.