Chapter 31 Maya
MAYA
It was closing time at Butterberry Oven. Mrs. Appleby was sweeping just past the counter, near the edge of the prep space. After a few moments, she paused, her eyes flicking up beneath the brim of her headscarf.
“Maya,” she said. “I’ve got to ask something.”
I stilled over the sink in the back corner, the last cupcake tray still warm in my hands. “Yeah?”
She didn’t fidget, never did. But her eyes locked onto mine. “I heard something in town today. That you didn’t go to prison over the necklace. That it was…an assault. You punched a girl in the face. That true?”
Most people had latched onto the word burglary and stopped there. But the truth had legs now, and the rest was catching up. I almost felt relieved that Mrs. Appleby asked me outright.
I drew in a breath and let it out gradually. “No. I never assaulted anyone. But someone made it look like I had.”
Her expression didn’t move. She simply watched me like she was weighing flour, careful and exact.
“Believe me, Mrs. Appleby,” I said. “I swear to you.”
Still nothing.
So I added the thing that mattered most, “Is my time behind bars bothering you?”
“I had to deflect a few things,” she said. Simple. Neutral.
“I get it. If you want me gone…” I set the tray on the drying rack, my hands damp and cold. “I’ll go. But Buffaloberry Hill is my life now. And this bakery is not just a job. It’s the first place I’ve belonged to in a long time.”
She rested the broom gently behind the backroom door, then leaned a hip against the frame, her arms crossing.
“I’ve been running this place for nearly twenty years,” she said. “And I’ve hired all kinds of girls. Some baked perfect cookies, some baked perfect lies.” A pause. Then, “You? You’re the one who stays late just to straighten a piping bag.”
I hesitated. “So…you’re not firing me?”
She chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve done more good in this bakery than half the town’s gossip brigade. If anyone’s got a problem, they can come take it up with me. And I’ll point them right to the bourbon cakes they keep stuffing in their faces.”
The laugh that slipped out of me was a little teary. “Thanks, Mrs. A.”
“Go home, Maya. You’ve earned the right to build something better.”
She didn’t have to say it again. I packed up quickly, grabbed my canvas bag, and headed out with a tiny sense of pride hitching a ride on my ribs.
Since the bakery closed early, I decided to stop by the garden center before heading to The Sundown. I wanted something alive in the kitchen window. A few potted flowers, nothing fussy. I picked out a couple of cheerful primroses and a stubborn little lavender that refused to lean.
By the time I reached the register, the lights were dimming, and the guy at the counter was already flipping the sign to CLOSED.
The parking lot was empty. It was one of those still Montana dusks, where the air turned syrupy and strange.
I didn’t see him until I heard the footfalls.
He came out of nowhere, dressed in black, his face hidden behind a ski mask like he’d wandered off the set of a backwoods heist flick. Only this wasn’t a movie. This was real. And I was the target.
He chased me, then grabbed my neck from behind, yanking my arms back with enough force to make my spine jolt.
“My boss wants their necklace back,” he said, his tone making it clear he wasn’t in the mood to say it twice.
My pulse went feral. I didn’t recognize the voice. This was someone new, someone Annamaria or Uncle David had sent.
I kept my tone flat when I replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His grip tightened, enough to warn, but not quite enough to bruise. “I’ve got a knife in my pocket,” he muttered, “and I won’t hesitate to use it.”
Right in the middle of my brain short-circuiting, a thought surfaced. Maybe this was my out. Maybe I could finally be rid of the damn thing. “Fine. You want it back?”
He leaned in. “I don’t. But the one who sent me does.”
“Then let me go. I’ll give it to you.”
A beat of silence passed. Then he loosened his hold, just slightly. “Tomorrow. Noon. Wrap it in brown paper and drop it inside the bin next to the memorial. Don’t be late.”
“Fine,” I said. “Now let me go.”
“Not so fast.”
His grip clamped tighter again, crushing breath from my chest, and then I felt it. Cold metal pressing against my throat.
I froze. “What else do you want?” I asked, the tremor in my voice impossible to hide.
“When did you take it?”
And there it was, the question that answered my lingering question. Annamaria hadn’t even realized it was missing. Not until now.
This was my shot. Lie, but make it believable. I rewound fast, scanning through her socials in my head. Her birthday was last month, and she’d posted nonstop from that ridiculous mountain resort. Her house would’ve been empty.
“Five weeks ago,” I said. “September thirtieth. Around Annamaria’s birthday. I knew no one would be home.”
He scoffed, then leaned in closer, his breath against my ear. “Tomorrow. Noon. Don’t be late.”
Then, just as suddenly, he let me go.
I stood frozen, my mind locked up. The knife might’ve been gone, but its presence clung to my skin like static. I could still feel it. The memory of pressure. The breath behind it.
Numb, I dropped to my knees and started gathering the scattered flowers and supplies.
My fingers fumbled over terracotta and stems. Everything I’d planned for The Sundown tonight was ruined.
Bright petals crushed, leaves bent. The frog and bug ornaments had survived the fall, but even they looked like they didn’t belong anymore.
They’d always carry the weight of this night now.
The carry bag sagged as I shoved everything back in, not even sure how half of it hadn’t shattered.
I climbed into my car. My hands, bloodless and shaking, were useless on the wheel. I couldn’t get a full breath and couldn’t start the engine either. I tried once, twice. It gave a pathetic click and went quiet again.
Without thinking, I pulled out my phone and called Noah.
“Hey,” I said, my voice thin. “My car won’t start. Can you pick me up at the garden center?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Be right there.”
I ended the call but didn’t move. I couldn’t. I just sat there in the dim car and stared at the empty lot, half-expecting something else to crawl out of the dark. Afraid that the thug hadn’t really gone. Certain that his boss might already be watching.
Then, headlights came. Too bright. Too sudden. I flinched before I registered the truck.
Noah.
His door hadn’t even fully opened before he was on his feet and moving. He wasn’t running. He was charging.
I bolted out of the car and collided with him. His arms snapped around me so fast that it stole what breath I had left.
“Maya,” he murmured. “What happened?”
Because he already knew it wasn’t the car. I didn’t shake like this over dead batteries.
He guided me to his truck, helped me inside, then climbed in and pulled me close, his hands locking behind my back. Like if he let go, something worse than tonight might happen.
“Tell me,” he urged.
It was too late to pretend.
“A guy…he came out of nowhere and threatened me. He wants the necklace. Said it was for his boss. Either Uncle David or Annamaria…or both.”
His breath caught. Then his hold tightened, as if his instincts needed to shield before his brain could catch up. “I’m so sorry, Blue.”
He kissed the top of my head, and for a moment, I let that silence hold me up.
“He said to drop it in the trash bin next to the memorial. Tomorrow. Noon.”
“It’s a trap,” Noah said immediately.
“What if it’s not?” I reasoned. “What if it’s my chance to finally get rid of it?”
He shook his head, his jaw clenched. “They’re not looking for peace. They’re looking for control. And you know it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“And he asked when I took it,” I said quietly.
“What’d you tell him?”
“A lie. I said I did it on Annamaria’s birthday. Five weeks ago.”
He exhaled, but it didn’t sound like relief. “Good. That buys us time.” Then his voice dipped lower. “But from now on, you stay near me. No more distance. No more walking alone. You stay where I can see you. You understand me?”
I pressed my forehead to his chest. The smell of him—sun-dried sweat, flannel, and that trace of sawdust he always carried—wrapped around me. It was something real in a moment that didn’t feel real.