Chapter 41 Tom
TOM
“What the hell is this?” I ask in disbelief as I step into the kitchen, sweaty and tired from an extra-long run to find flour-geddon has happened in the last hour.
“What?” Kat asks innocently, a measuring cup in her hand and flour on her cheek.
There’s a stack of papers fanned out across the counter, and as I get closer I can see the top one has instructions on how you, too, can make your own sourdough starter.
And under that is ways to grow your own herbs inside, yoga routines for beginners, meditation techniques, journaling prompts, and ten easy high-protein lunches when you’re on the go.
For fuck’s sake.
Royce is dead to me.
Kid is getting a lifetime subscription to something obnoxious so I can delight in his discomfort.
Forever.
Because he’s the only one she could have accessed to make this happen.
Willing every nerve in my body to settle the fuck down, I swallow and try like hell to keep my voice even. “What are you doing, Kat?”
“Making my own sourdough starter?” Her words are also careful like she’s expecting my eye to start twitching at any moment.
The odds are good for that, honestly.
“Why do you need a sourdough starter? We don’t live here.”
“She can come with us!” she says proudly, holding up the lidded jar as she beams at me.
“She?”
“Yes! I made a list of names. Do you want to hear them?”
“I—”
“Bread with benefits, knead me badly, sour-yo, dough go breaking my heart…” She grins. “They’re pretty good, right?”
I open my mouth and close it, thinking better of sharing what’s going through my head. “I’m going to go shower.”
“Oh, that’s no fun.” She frowns. “Think of all the things I can make with this!”
“Have you ever made bread before?”
“No, but how hard can it be?” One delicate shoulder lifts then falls. “And besides, I’ve always wanted to try it and now,”—she waves her hand around at the mess—“I can.”
I think back to a conversation I had with Cullen when he first started dating his now wife. She wanted to go to one of those events where everyone paints the same picture while drinking wine, and he said he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less.
Even back then he was smart enough to realize it was never about the painting.
She wanted to enjoy a night out with him doing something new.
Share the experience.
So instead of worrying about the mess and the fact that she’s in danger, we’re in the middle of an investigation, and this is the last thing I want to do right now, I inhale a steadying breath and close the distance between us.
“You know what? I think I saw a recipe for those cinnamon rolls you can make from the discard when it’s ready.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead, I watch as her whole body sags in relief and her smile widens.
Because it’s not about making bread.
Or yoga.
Or indoor fucking plants.
It’s about a woman who is trying desperately to find some semblance of control at a time where there is none. Everything she’s worked to accomplish could simply disappear overnight, and with so much unknown right now, I can’t blame her for wanting to hold on to something.
Like sourdough.
Or preferably, me.
“I need to jump in the shower but how about I run you a bath?”
“Will you join me?”
“I was thinking I could watch.” Raising an eyebrow, I make sure to let my eyes rake over her body and toss her a salacious grin.
“Go.” She giggles before swatting my chest with her hand. “I have to clean up.”
She does.
And she should.
But it can wait.
So instead, I hook her around the thighs and toss her over my shoulder, giving her ass a smack just because I can.
It’s a really great ass.
She yelps and wriggles, trying to get free, but it’s no use. I’m already halfway up the stairs and looking forward to what distractions I can come up with by the time we reach the top.
“I don’t think there’s another option,” Grimm says over the line. “This is our best chance to put a stop to all this.”
He’s adamant and I can hear the murmurs of agreement from each of the guys as I drag my hand down my face. The hour I spent with Kat naked and wet left me relaxed and fairly optimistic, but that good mood faded quickly not long after getting on this conference call.
“Royce, read the messages again.”
“The first one was a private message that reads: Sinners get what’s coming to them. You’ll never poison their minds again with your unholy filth.”
“And the other?” I ask, letting the words replay in my head.
“The other is a comment on a post related to Kat receiving the award but not directly naming her. That one says: Don’t miss out on little Miss Perfect finally being exposed! She can run but she can’t hide. Sinners always pay the price.”
“Those messages were both posted from a coffee shop Wi-Fi,” Grimm says.
“I also talked to the kid again that spray-painted Kat’s garage.
The number the suspect messaged him from was a prepaid cell phone that is no longer in use, but the kid called me today and said he saw the woman again at a different gas station across town. ”
“What did he say?” I ask, feeling like I’m getting information in slow motion because I’m not with them in person.
“Said he almost didn’t recognize her because when she gave him the money, she had long blonde hair, but this time it was a different color. He couldn’t tell exactly what it looked like because she had it tucked up under a beanie, but she winked at him when she caught him staring.”
“So, the blonde hair was most likely a wig,” Jace says. “Looking back through Hazel’s social media, her sister, Portia, had long blonde hair for a while, also pink and some rainbow style.” He pauses. “She changed it back to a darker brown before she and Hazel went to Vermont.”
“Was it unusual for Portia to go back to her natural color?” I ask, tossing the pen in my hand onto the desk.
“As far as I can tell, there’s not a box of hair dye she didn’t like—no real rhyme or reason though.”
“So, we’re working under the assumption that Hazel, Portia, and Amelia—or some combination of the three—found out that Kat is also Sloane Daniels.
Their shock and disgust morphed into creating fake accounts to bully Kat online but for what?
What was the end goal?” Ozzy asks as we all sit with the information he’s laid out.
“Maybe they thought if they could scare her enough, she’d stop writing as Sloane,” Jace offers as Royce talks over him.
“Doesn’t explain the accounts also going after Kat for her children’s books.”
“Jealousy?” Grimm says. “We know without question that her sales and audience has always been higher than Hazel’s, and that gap has only grown since Portia’s death.”
“Do we know the purpose of their trip to Vermont?” I ask.
“Not that I know of,” Royce answers as he shuffles something around. “But grief is different for everyone. Maybe she was feeling the pressure from Portia or the aunt to be bigger than she was comfortable with, and now she’s trying to sabotage Kat in order to honor’s Portia’s memory.”
“That’s twisted,” Ozzy says as he chuffs out a laugh. It’s more surprise than amusement as a contemplative silence settles over us.
“So who is pulling the strings now?” Jace asks. “Is it the aunt who has at least one confirmed throwaway account that she uses to heckle Kat anonymously, or is it Hazel with a complete personality change after her sister’s death?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I tell them, an odd sense of calm washing over me, “and it starts with getting Kat back to her house.”