Chapter 4
Claire
I didn’t say much on the drive back. Neither did Asher.
The silence felt thick, charged with things neither of us wanted to admit out loud.
I stared out the passenger window, jaw tight, replaying the confrontation in my head and hating how easily he’d boxed me in.
I didn’t like being cornered. Didn’t like someone assuming they knew my limits better than I did.
Or deciding what risks I was allowed to take.
Asher Thorne was infuriating, stubborn and self-righteous in that quiet, controlled way that made it worse.
And annoyingly good-looking. That thought slipped in uninvited, and I shoved it away just as quickly.
Whatever his deal was, whatever his history with this town, I didn’t know it.
And I didn’t owe him anything beyond showing up to work and doing my job.
Inside the cabin, I kicked off my boots and dropped onto the edge of the bed, the quiet pressing in around me.
My pulse was still elevated, anger buzzing under my skin.
I changed into soft pants and an old t-shirt and climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged with my laptop balanced on my thighs.
If Asher didn’t want to mind his own business, fine.
I’d do what I always did. I’d dig. I’d pulled articles about Val-du-Lys before.
About Marcel Bellerose’s trial. About the charges that evaporated on appeal.
About the shooting that should’ve ended everything and somehow didn’t.
But tonight, I went deeper. I adjusted my search terms. Opened older archives.
Local papers that didn’t bother hiding their opinions behind objectivity. The name came up again and again.
Marcel Bellerose. Smuggling operations. Gambling rings.
Drugs moved through quiet towns that didn’t want to know how their money was kept clean.
Then I saw her. Bellerose Daughter Testifies Against Father.
I clicked. Harmony Bellerose. The article described her as defiant, courageous and reckless.
She was a liability to his operations. She’d cooperated with authorities.
Handed over information. Tried to bring the whole thing down from the inside.
And worst of all she failed. I leaned back against the headboard and blew out a breath, staring at the screen.
Another article followed. Community Divided After Bellerose Daughter Returns to Val-du-Lys. Another click. And then—
Wedding Announcement: Harmony Bellerose and Eric Thorne.
I’ll be damned. My breath stalled.
Eric Thorne, as in Asher’s brother. The words sat there, heavy and undeniable.
Harmony Bellerose hadn’t just come back to town.
She’d married into the family that ran half of it.
I closed my laptop slowly, my mind racing.
If Harmony knew anything, if she’d seen something, heard something, suspected something, it was buried beneath layers of loyalty, danger, and survival.
I couldn’t just show up and ask. Not if I wanted answers, but she also tried to bring her father down, which meant she had different values, and she was married the police director’s son, which said what side of the law she believed in.
I’d have to find a way to make contact with her.
My guess was that she was only a couple of years older than me.
I settled my laptop on the bedside table and took out the picture of Sophie and me.
It was a photo of us at age ten running through sprinklers in my backyard.
She gave it to me the last night I saw her alive.
I tucked it away and tried to sleep. Only sleep was restless with unanswered questions and the voice of my best friend asking me to find her justice.
The next morning, after work, I stopped at the bakery on Maple Valley Road.
I needed bread. There was no way I could show up to work again without lunch.
The bell above the bakery door chimed softly when I stepped inside.
The place was warm and bright, sunlight streaming through the front windows and catching on glass cases filled with pastries.
It smelled like butter, sugar and yeast, comforting in a way I hadn’t expected.
I scanned the display, then pointed. “Can I get one of those maple butter tarts?”
The woman behind the counter paused. Her smile softened, just slightly. “Good choice.”
“My best friend used to love them,” I said without thinking. “Said nothing else compared.”
Something flickered across her face. Not surprise. Something closer to recognition, or maybe sadness.
“They do that,” she said quietly. “Stick with people. This was one of my mom’s recipes. It’s a definite crowd pleaser.”
She rang it up and slid it onto a small paper plate.
“I’m Claire,” I added, mostly because the silence felt too heavy.
“Harmony,” she said easily. “Nice to meet you.”
I took my tart and leaned against the counter. “This place is great. I didn’t realize Val-du-Lys had a bakery like this.”
She laughed. “Most people don’t until they need it.”
“I definitely need it,” I said. “I’m working at the orchard.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Maple Valley?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Asher Thorne is my boss.”
Her smile widened. “He runs a tight ship.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said, smiling despite myself.
“And you?” she asked. “You just passing through?”
“Seasonal work,” I said. “Free housing, decent pay.”
“Smart,” she said. “That job’s no joke, though.”
“No kidding,” I said. “I’m starting to realize I probably need to pack my own lunches. I’ve eaten Asher’s food two days in a row.”
Harmony laughed, the sound easy and genuine. “He won’t starve you. He’s a good guy.”
“That seems to be the consensus,” I said.
I added a bag of focaccia buns to the counter. “I should probably attempt to be self-sufficient.”
“Always a good goal,” she said, wrapping them up. “But don’t feel bad. Asher takes care of his people.”
I nodded, unsure why that statement sat with me longer than it should have. She rang me up and I paid.
Harmony handed me the bag. “Come back anytime. You’ll need the calories.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks.”
As I pushed the door open, the bell chimed again.
Every instinct in me wanted to turn back around.
To ask her everything all at once. To say, my friend disappeared.
Do you know anything? Have you ever heard her name?
Do you remember that night? The questions crowded my throat.
But I didn’t ask. People didn’t open up when they felt cornered.
I knew that better than most. If I wanted Harmony to trust me I couldn’t come at her like an investigator. I had to be patient.
So I walked out with my pastry and my bag of bread and pretended my heart wasn’t racing.
I told myself that connections weren’t built in a single conversation.
That answers came slower than fear. I didn’t know what Harmony might know.
But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
If I wanted the truth, I’d have to earn it.