Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The drive to the shop is a tense and silent blur, my hands clammy with sweat as I nervously rub them together. Tucker’s jaw is clenched tight and his eyes remain fixed on the road ahead. He doesn’t attempt to make small talk, which is probably for the best. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll break down in tears. I manage to steady my hands long enough to send Bernie a text, updating her on the situation and promising to keep her informed.
How could this happen?
I haven’t invested much in the shop’s security system, only installing a camera out front, mainly for show. It’s not hooked up to any monitoring service. After all, this is Somerville, a place where people leave their cars unlocked and set their purses on the counter while shopping. Crime is rare here, especially on Main Street, where Couture Cakes and a string of quaint little shops are located. In this community, people keep an eye out for each other and if anything strange happens, everyone knows about it.
I never keep cash on hand in the shop; all of our transactions are done through credit card. The most valuable items in the shop are my baking equipment, but I doubt there’s a high demand for an industrial stand mixer on the resale market.
So why would someone break into my shop now?
As our car pulls up to the curb, my heart pounds against my chest like a drum. Police cars, their red and blue lights flashing in the late-night haze, line the street. We come to a stop in front of the shop and my eyes struggle to process what I’m seeing.
In bright, hot pink spray paint, words are scrawled across the front of the building. “Slut. Whore.” The letters are jagged and crude, dripping down the windows and smearing across the display cases.
A wave of nausea washes over me, threatening to overwhelm me completely. Who could have done this? My mind flashes back to the strange messages I’ve been receiving from Snaptalk… Is there a connection?
Tucker parks the car and runs over to open the door for me. He grabs my hand and holds it firmly as the two of us walk up to the front of the shop to assess the damage. My legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand. While the two large display windows have been vandalized with spray paint, the glass on the front door of the shop has been completely shattered. It looks as though someone broke the glass and then chipped it away so they could walk through.
Tucker leads me toward the door, careful not to tread on any glass. The two of us step inside where a handful of police officers are waiting. They’re all dressed in uniform, a couple of them chatting on one side of the room while the other three are taking photos and notes of the space.
A man suddenly appears in front of me, reaching out to shake my hand. “Miss Montgomery? I’m Lieutenant Connors. I called you earlier.”
“Yes, I’m Reese Montgomery,” I say, my voice sounding feeble and weak. “This is my fiancé, Tucker Harding.” The two men shake hands.
“It’s nice to meet you both. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances. We got an anonymous call about an hour ago. The caller said they heard glass breaking and then saw someone with a flashlight walking around the shop.”
He keeps talking, discussing the extent of the damage. I’m trying my best to pay attention and nod along, but all I can focus on is the chaotic state of the shop.
My eyes bounce around the room, taking in every detail. The overturned chair in the corner, the broken dome of the display case, shattered glass scattered across the floor, glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights. Deep scratches mar the once pristine wallpaper, its delicate floral pattern now interrupted by jagged, angry lines. The pastry counter, once a showcase of baked treats, now lies in ruins, its contents strewn haphazardly across the tile. Shards of porcelain from smashed teacups crunch underfoot as I step further into the chaos.
The carefully crafted ambiance of the quaint bakery has been shattered.
And so has my heart.
My eyes burn with impending tears. I’m afraid if I start crying now I’ll never stop. I give myself permission to sob into my pillow later, because it’s not going to help me here. For now I can only think of one place I need to see—the walk-in cooler that holds all of the pastries for the gala. And, of course, my wedding cake. With both events only a couple of days away, if they are destroyed, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Tucker, who is discussing the details of the situation with Lieutenant Connors.
I rush around the broken display counter and move past my office and into the kitchen with my heart in my throat. When I reach the back, my hands gently grasp the heavy stainless steel door to the walk-in cooler and pull. It doesn’t budge.
It’s still locked. I let out a huge sigh of relief. We usually lock up at the end of the day and thankfully, Bernie didn’t forget. I quickly retrace my steps back to my office and retrieve the keys. When I finally open the door, I practically scream out with joy.
Everything for the gala is still carefully stored, and standing in the middle is my wedding cake.
It’s stunning. The cake stands tall and graceful, its three tiers covered in a flawless, smooth white fondant. Delicate, shimmering pearls are meticulously arranged in intricate patterns, spiraling around each tier in perfect asymmetry. The pearls catch the light, creating a subtle glow. It literally takes my breath away.
Bernie has truly outdone herself, creating exactly what I had pictured in my mind’s eye. Actually, no, it’s even better.
I give myself a moment to stand there and admire it. Then I take three deep, calming breaths. The front of the shop may be a mess, but at least the events for the weekend are locked up safe. When I’m done, I make sure to relock the door before heading back out front.
The police officers are gone, their flashing lights fading into the distance as I watch the last car pulling away on the street. The once chaotic scene has settled into an unsettling silence. Tucker stands in the middle of the vandalized shop, his phone pressed to his ear.
I walk up next to him, my footsteps echoing in the empty space, and he instinctively wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. His touch is comforting, a reminder that I’m not alone. As he speaks into the phone, his words are clear and decisive.
“Yes, I need a team here right away,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering. “Bring paint thinner, a scraper, whatever you think you’ll need from the warehouse for the windows, plus cleaning supplies and bags. I want at least four guys on this. I need it gone by morning.”
He pauses, listening to the response on the other end of the line, before continuing with instructions about plywood for the front door.
As I stand there, leaning into his embrace, my heart swells with gratefulness for my fiancé. I’ve always prided myself on being an independent woman, not a girl that needs rescuing, but right now, in the face of this mess, I’ll gladly accept his help and support.
He wraps up the call and slides his phone back into his pocket.
“I’ve got my night shift manager on his way, with part of my maintenance team. They will remove the paint from the windows, clean and repair what they can, and secure the front door.” He strokes my hair. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as I lean into his warm body, a small sense of peace washing over me.
“Reese?”
The sound of my name, spoken in that achingly familiar tone, sends a wave of unease through my body. I pull away from Tucker, my heart pounding in my chest as I turn toward the front door, toward the direction of the voice.
Because there, standing in the doorway, is Zach.