Chapter 8 Hannah
Hannah
Hannah's hands trembled as she signed the last of the release papers. The desk sergeant didn't bother meeting her eyes as he pushed a plastic bag across the counter.
"Your personal effects."
The words felt wrong. Clinical. Like these weren't pieces of her life but evidence to be cataloged.
Her grandmother's apron came out first, flour dust still clinging to the fabric. Yesterday morning, she'd tied it on without thinking, the way she had every morning since taking over Sugar & Spice. Now it felt like a relic from someone else's life.
Her jewelry followed. The delicate gold earrings Jake had given her for Christmas. The necklace he'd fastened for her many times before, his callused fingers so gentle against her skin.
Jake.
Her phone was next. The screen was blank. No missed calls. No messages. No explanation for why the man who'd promised to always be there had left her alone on the worst night of her life.
She'd waited all night in that cell, clinging to the certainty that Jake would fix this.
But he hadn't.
The officer barely glanced at the paper before nodding toward the door. "You're free to go."
Free.
The word landed like a joke she didn't understand.
Hannah caught her reflection in the station's glass doors and froze. The woman staring back at her was a stranger—dark circles under her eyes, hair tangled from a restless night on a metal bench, wearing yesterday's clothes like a scarlet letter.
The same shirt that had felt so soft yesterday morning now felt grimy against her skin. The flour dust on her jeans no longer represented comfort and home—now it just felt like evidence of everything she'd lost.
She wrapped her arms around herself, blinking hard against the morning light, then turned toward home. Her feet felt heavy, every step a reminder that she was walking back to an empty apartment.
Crystal Lake was waking up around her. Cars moved down Main Street. Shop owners flipped their signs to "Open." The world kept turning as if nothing had changed. As if her entire life hadn't been shattered in the space of twenty-four hours.
Her phone felt heavy in her hand. She pressed the home button, watching the screen light up with painful hope.
No calls.
No messages.
No Jake.
The morning sun beat down, too warm. Or maybe it was just that everything felt wrong now—too bright, too loud, too normal in a world that had lost all sense of normalcy.
Hannah clutched her grandmother's apron to her chest, breathing in the lingering scent of vanilla and cinnamon. Yesterday, those smells had meant home and safety and love.
Now they just smelled like lies.
Sugar & Spice looked wrong in the morning light.
Dark windows where there should have been warmth.
Display cases that should have been filled with the morning's fresh pastries still full of yesterday's offerings.
The copper wind chimes her mother had hung years ago played in the breeze, an incongruous note of normalcy.
The front door was locked. Not by her. Someone—FBI, local police, maybe Jake—had secured the bakery after her arrest, turning the place she'd built with her own hands into something foreign, something closed off.
Hannah's key shook against the lock. How many times had she opened this door? Thousands of mornings, the same simple motion. But now her fingers felt clumsy, foreign, like they belonged to someone else.
A car slowed as it passed. She glimpsed Mrs. Harrison from the pharmacy, the woman who'd ordered Hannah's chocolate chip cookies for every PTA meeting for the past three years. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before Mrs. Harrison quickly looked away, accelerating past.
The key finally turned. The familiar bell chimed as Hannah stepped inside, but the sound felt hollow in the empty bakery. No Mary Peterson waiting for her Danish. No Mr. Wilson with his newspaper. No Billy dropping off fresh berries.
Her phone buzzed. Her heart leaped—
But it was just Sarah. Cancelling her shift.
That's fine, Hannah typed back. I'm not sure if we'll open today anyway.
Sarah didn't respond.
The morning sun streamed through the windows, catching dust motes in the air. Usually by now, the bakery would be full of warmth and life—the hum of the ovens, the rich scent of coffee, the chatter of regulars sharing gossip over fresh pastries.
Instead, there was just silence.
Movement caught her eye. Through the front windows, she watched Tommy Mercer—a kid she'd known since he was in diapers—cross to the other side of the street.
She could lock the doors. Stay hidden. Let the town make up its mind before she faced the damage.
But no. This was her bakery.
Her grandmother's legacy.
They didn't get to take that away from her. With a deep breath, she marched to the door. Her hand hesitated for only a second before she flipped the sign to 'OPEN.'
The morning rush hour peaked outside. Customers who should have been lining up for their usual orders hurried past. A few people pointed, whispered behind their hands. Someone had their phone out, probably taking pictures.
In the kitchen, everything still sat exactly as she'd left it yesterday—bowls of rising dough, perfectly proofed, now ruined. A tray of golden croissants, grown stale on the cooling rack. The oldies station still playing, cheerful and mocking in the empty space.
She reached for her apron on autopilot, then remembered it was clutched in her hand, taken from a plastic evidence bag like something shameful.
The kitchen phone rang, shrill in the silence, making her jump.
She grabbed it, heart pounding—
"Sugar & Spice, this is—"
"Yeah, we need to cancel our wedding cake order."
Hannah tightened her grip on the receiver. She knew that voice.
Charlotte Miller.
Bride-to-be, one of her sweetest customers, someone who had gushed over lemon-raspberry cake samples just last week. Someone who had once said, "I wouldn't trust anyone but you to make my wedding cake, Hannah."
Now her voice was clipped. Cold. Distant.
"We'll get our deposit back, right?"
Hannah forced herself to breathe.
"Of course, Charlotte." Her voice barely wavered. Almost steady. "I'll process the refund today."
A beat of silence.
"Great. Thanks."
A pause.
Then the dagger.
"Nothing personal, you understand. Just... given the circumstances..."
Given the circumstances.
As if she were bad PR. A stain on their perfect wedding.
Hannah pressed her nails into her palm and smiled like she wasn't falling apart.
"I understand."
Charlotte let out a relieved breath. "Okay. Well, good luck with everything."
Click.
The line went dead.
Hannah slowly set the phone down.
The bakery was too quiet.
She turned to the kitchen counter, her hands shaking, and saw the order folder still open to Charlotte's wedding cake design.
Neat sketches, flavors they had excitedly picked out together. A cake that would never exist now.
Nothing personal.
Just her entire life crumbling around her.
Just everyone she'd ever known turning their backs.
Just the understanding that twenty-four hours was all it took to destroy a lifetime of trust.
Where was Jake?
A knot formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down. He had to have a reason.
Maybe he was working. Maybe he was trying to fix this already. That's what he did—he fixed things.
He'd walk through that door, shake his head at the town's cruelty, pull her into his arms and tell her they'd get through this together.
As long as she could just see him, touch him, hear his voice—then everything would be okay.
It had to be.
Her phone buzzed again. She should check it.
Instead, she forced herself to stand, her legs unsteady as she walked to the door. She flipped the Open sign to Closed. She turned the lock, the soft click echoing in the empty space. A barrier between her and the outside world.
Then, she sank to the floor of her grandmother's kitchen, pressed her face into the flour-dusted apron, and finally let herself cry.
Hannah wiped the last traces of tears from her face and stood, her movements slow, unsteady. The bakery walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating her under the weight of everything she had lost.
She needed air.
She needed Jake.
The certainty settled deep in her bones. He would make this right.
She grabbed her keys and pushed out the door, ignoring the way her stomach twisted as she caught a few more customers hurrying past, their gazes flicking to her before they turned away. Let them stare. Let them talk. She didn't need them. She only needed Jake.
By the time she reached his street, her hands were shaking again.
His truck wasn't there.
He'd given her a key months ago—"For emergencies," he'd said, pressing it into her palm with a kiss. "Or whenever you need me."
She needed him now. More than she'd ever needed anyone.
The apartment was dark. Silent. Wrong.
Her key turned in the lock. The door swung open to reveal familiar shadows: the old leather couch where they'd spent countless evenings tangled together, his worn work boots by the door, his favorite coffee mug still sitting on the kitchen counter.
The smell hit her first—sharp and acidic. Whiskey. Hannah's stomach turned.
"Jake?" Her voice sounded small in the emptiness.
No answer.
She moved through the rooms, touching things that suddenly felt like props on a stage. The blanket they'd curled under during movies. The shelf where he kept his tools, organized just so. The photo of them on the fridge—her laughing as he stole a bite of cookie dough, both of them covered in flour.
She could still feel his arms around her, still hear his laugh, still taste the sweetness of his kisses.
Glass crunched under her shoes as she stepped into the kitchen. Amber liquid stained the wall, fragments of a broken bottle scattered across the floor. The sight was jarring—violent in a way Jake had never been. Had never seemed capable of being.
Then she saw the black leather case lying open on the counter, edges worn and creased from use. Inside, the golden badge gleamed in the weak morning light, the embossed eagle and Federal Bureau of Investigation lettering catching on the sun's rays. Not a contractor's license. Not a work permit.
Not the kind of badge Jake should have.
An FBI badge.
She stared at the open case. The golden badge gleamed under the morning light, familiar yet utterly foreign. Her mind struggled to make sense of it, the pieces refusing to fit.
Special Agent Jacob Cooper.
The words swam before her eyes.
Special Agent.
Not a contractor.
Not her Jake.
Not real.
None of it had been real.
A sound escaped her throat—something between a laugh and a sob. Her fingers closed around the badge, the metal biting into her palm.
Every kiss.
Every touch.
Every whispered "I love you."
All lies.
She was a target.
A mark.
Someone to be investigated and destroyed.
And Jake—God, Jake—had been the weapon they'd used to do it.
The badge clattered to the floor. Hannah slid down the cabinet, landing hard on the kitchen tiles. These same tiles where Jake had kissed her senseless just days ago, pressing her against the counter and whispering that she was everything.
Everything.
She'd been nothing.
Nothing but a job.
Nothing but a way to get to her father.
The truth crashed over her in waves, each realization worse than the last.
He'd never loved her.
He'd never been hers.
He'd planned this. All of it.
Every moment they'd shared had been carefully calculated to make her trust him. To make her fall in love with him. To give him access to her life, her family, her heart.
And she'd given him everything.
Hannah pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to hold back the scream building in her chest. But it tore free anyway, echoing through the empty space that had never really been Jake's home at all.