Chapter 9
Eric
Sleep didn’t stand a chance. The storm had stopped hours ago, but the sound of it still lived in the rafters, dripping from the eaves little by little. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Harmony, her reflection in the window, the soft tremor in her voice when she whispered, Goodnight, hero.
It wasn’t the first time she’d said it, but it landed heavier now. Maybe because I could still feel the weight of her hand against mine. Maybe because no one else ever said it like they meant it.
By dawn, I gave up on rest. The orchard waited.
It always did. Mist hovered over the rows of trees, soft and white against the dark soil.
The cabins along the tree line were still quiet, smoke curling from their chimneys.
The workers lived in those cabins, men and women who worked in the brewery and the orchard.
The air smelled like wet bark as I passed by.
Storms might knock things down, but the orchard always found a way to stand again.
To rebuild, despite the havoc the weather could bring.
I thought if a tree was that resilient then so was I.
I walked through the rows of trees, checking for damage, clearing fallen limbs and bruised apples.
I said hello to the early-morning crew, the ones who never let us down.
“Morning, Jasper,” I called as I passed.
Evan and Perry were next. Out here, work had rhythm, answers, control.
No ghosts. Just labor and reward. It made life feel simple for a moment, even when it was laced with too many hurdles.
That’s why I had taken it upon myself to run the orchard.
It felt like a solid way to wake up every morning.
The problem was, things spiraled when Phoenix thought it would be a great idea to open the bakery on the property.
Then the reviews had been so good, the town convinced me we needed a location on Main Street.
From a monetary perspective it made sense, but it wasn’t fuel for my soul.
Not like the way baking was for Harmony.
Crazy how my thoughts always circled back to her.
By seven, I loaded a bin of fallen fruit into the truck and headed toward town.
The road curved past the river, brown and swollen, then climbed toward the bridge that marked the edge of Val-Du-Lys.
Becket’s cruiser sat there, hazard lights flashing soft amber in the fog.
He was leaning against the hood, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, jaw tight enough to crack.
I stopped the truck. “You’re out early,” I said, climbing down.
He didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Still listening to those podcasts?” I asked with a half-smile.
Becket wasn’t satisfied with the way Mom took off. He never believed a woman just upped and left her five kids without looking back. Since I could remember, he’d listened to missing-persons podcasts about strangers, trying to find clues or patterns to explain the whereabouts of missing people.
He gave a small, humorless snort. “Yeah. Old habits die hard.”
I’d heard them too, those late-night true-crime shows with their glossy sympathy and half-truths.
“Turn them off,” I said, because that kind of thing wasn’t healthy. My brothers and I had a hard time letting go. But maybe that was because we never got closure.
He ignored me. “You remember the night she left?”
I did. I was fifteen. He was thirteen. Maggie Chabot’s car had gone off the road that week, a twisted wreck by the river, Kyle Jansen dead beside her.
The town said it was rain, slick asphalt, bad luck.
Dad said the same. He needed it to be an accident.
Needed Val-Du-Lys to stay clean while he climbed toward his badge and his title.
After the funeral, Mom fell apart. Maggie had been her childhood friend.
They had been placed in an orphanage together in Toronto.
Neither of them had anyone in the world, and then they met and promised to follow each other to the ends of the earth.
Mom kept her promise when Maggie moved to Val-Du-Lys to marry Charles Chabot.
That was why we grew up next to the Chabot kids and did everything together.
Then one morning, after the funeral, Mom was gone too. No note. No calls. Nothing.
“She didn’t even take her coat,” Becket said quietly, eyes still on the water. “I checked the closet that night. I kept thinking she’d come back for it.”
“Beck. . .”
“Mom was more than Maggie’s best friend, Eric. She was her blood sister. When Maggie died, Mom broke. You really think that’s coincidence?”
I didn’t answer.
He finally looked at me. “Dad says to let it rest. He’s been saying that for the past eleven years. But he doesn’t want it to rest. He wants it buried.”
“Maybe because digging it up won’t bring her back,” I said hoping to get through to him.
“Or maybe because it would.” His dark eyes, so similar too mine, burned a hole in my chest. I hated to see my brother hurting, but what good was it to live in the past?
His voice cracked around the words. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and showed me a photo, it was grainy, headlights in rain. “Traffic cam caught Olivier Bellerose’s truck near the industrial park last night. 1:00 a.m. Guess what’s down there?”
I frowned. “The old repair shop.”
“Yeah. The same one that ordered the steering part for Maggie’s car two weeks before the crash.”
“That place shut down years ago,” I reminded my brother.
“Changed hands. Twice. On paper, it’s a holding company out of Sherbrooke. But the billing address matches. Olivier and Nico were seen turning onto that road.”
I dragged a hand over my jaw. “You think Marcel Bellerose is connected? I was in school with Olivier and Nico. We’re all the same age. They weren’t criminals then.”
“I think we know Marcel groomed them both, and we know nothing good happens in that building after midnight.”
“Dad’s going to hate this,” I warned. After Mom left, he buried himself in even more work. He didn’t even like to hear her name. Even if his heartbreak was clear as day.
“He already does.” Becket took a sip of cold coffee. “Told me again this morning to drop it. Said reopening old files only hurts people. But if Maggie’s crash wasn’t an accident—and if Mom knew something—then that’s not history. That’s unfinished business.”
“You ever stop to think you became a cop because she left?” I asked. “Because chasing answers feels safer than admitting she’s gone?”
He laughed without humor. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then maybe stop chasing ghosts,” I deadpanned.
He straightened. “I’ll stop when they quit leaving bodies.”
I sighed. “What now?” My brother was stubborn, and I learned long ago nothing I could say would change his outlook.
“I’m heading to the station. Dad wants to ‘review’ the case before it gets reopened officially. I’ll probably get benched for it, but I don’t care.”
“I’ll come with you,” I offered because I knew Dad would be mega pissy about this.
He shook his head. “Stay close to Harmony. If Olivier and Nico are tangled in this, they’ll look for her. They’ll want control back.”
The thought of anyone cornering her again made my pulse tighten. “She didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Neither did Mom,” Becket said, then turned toward his cruiser. “Keep your radio on.”
He drove off, leaving the bridge empty but for the echo of his words.
I stood there, watching the river churn.
The same river that had taken Maggie’s car, the same one that might’ve carried more than wreckage downstream.
For years, I’d listened to those missing-person podcasts at night.
Stories about people who just walked away, voices fading into static.
It never felt like entertainment. It felt like research.
Like if I listened long enough, I’d understand how someone could leave their whole life behind.
But no number of episodes had ever told me why.
By the time I reached the bakery, Main Street was already awake. Shop doors were propped open, cleanup crews sweeping debris from the storm.
That’s when I saw her.
Harmony.
She was outside Petals and Pines, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, hauling trash bags toward the curb. Her jeans were streaked with mud, a smudge across her cheek. She looked stubborn and tired and alive in a way that hurt to look at. I crossed the street before I could talk myself out of it.
“Morning,” I called.
She looked up, surprise softening her expression. “You don’t rest, do you?”
“Neither do you.” I took the bag from her before she could argue. “Let me help.”
“You already did enough yesterday,” she noted.
“Not for you.”
Her lips parted, caught between protest and something else. “Becket said Nico and Olivier were near the industrial park again.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Beck is checking it out. You stay in town until we know what they’re after.”
“I’m fine, Eric.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “You keep saying that.”
Her hand brushed mine as she passed another bag. Small, warm, electric.
“I don’t need saving,” she said as if to remind me.
“I never said you did,” I confirmed.
For a second, everything slowed—the rain, wet air, the hum of distant traffic, the weight of the past pressing close. I wanted to tell her not saving her didn’t mean I’d ever stop trying. But I didn’t. Some truths lived better unsaid.
“Tea again tonight?” I asked, because at the end of the day, I was drawn to this woman, and nothing I tried to do would change that.
Her lips curved, hesitant. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take maybe.” I grinned like the Cheshire cat.
A siren wailed somewhere near the station. I stepped back. “Be careful today.”
“You too,” she said.
I turned toward the bakery with a hint of a smile on my face because I think she was definitely flirting a bit, although I was reading her hesitation too.
Or maybe it was fear. What I felt for her was scary for me too, but having her back in town again made it feel like I’d been given a second chance.
I just didn’t know what to do with it. Becket could chase his answers.
Dad could bury them. And I could keep pretending the past didn’t pull at every heartbeat.
But the truth was, I’d been chasing storms my whole life: fires, floods, women who disappeared without goodbye.
And Harmony Bellerose?
She wasn’t something to fix. She was the calm after the wreck, the light that made me want to believe the missing sometimes came home. Now the question remained, was I going to find the courage to go after my heart? Or let all my hopes burn like ashes.