Chapter 6
Sylvie Deering
Sylvie shifted her weight from one foot to the other as the line inched forward at an excruciatingly slow pace.
She had expected to attract attention, but she hadn’t counted on the wall of silent hostility that greeted her the moment she'd stepped through the door.
This went beyond the insular habits of a small town.
The bakery occupied one of the few thriving businesses on a street lined with vacant storefronts. The slow decay was obvious, and she wasn’t sure what could save it. Inside, however, there was a sense of unity in the deep-rooted friendships among those occupying the booths and tables.
She had deliberately chosen her most casual outfit that morning—worn jeans, a cream-colored cable-knit sweater beneath her winter jacket, and knee-high boots that were practical rather than professional.
Her effort had clearly failed. It was evident that Eugene had already spread the word that they weren’t officially with the Bureau.
To them, Sylvie and the others were merely private investigators digging up a past they would rather forget.
A middle-aged woman with weathered skin and dyed, damaged hair stood at the register, making no effort to speed things along. The unhurried exchange with the customer was the only sound breaking the tense stillness that had fallen over the previously chattering patrons.
Sylvie glanced toward the large display window facing the street, the glass fogged along the edges from the temperature difference.
Through the middle clear patch, she spotted Bit in the driver’s seat of the tech van, his gray knitted beanie pulled low over his ears as he grinned at his phone.
She could tell from his animated expression that he was video chatting with Zoey.
The sight of his unguarded happiness caused her to smile.
She wished she had been able to connect with Derek this morning, but he was already in an important board meeting that would take up most of his day.
On the bright side, he had been able to send her a picture of Coco.
Her pure white cat had curled up in his suit jacket, which meant that he would be picking off cat hair for the remainder of the day.
Sylvie was still in awe at how seamlessly Derek had fit into her carefully structured life. He had enough wealth to support his great-great-grandchildren, yet his ambition matched hers. They had somehow created a partnership that strengthened rather than diminished who they were individually.
That thought inevitably made her mind drift to Heather Moore, whose life had been cut short at twenty-five.
A young woman who would never know the joy of finding unexpected love, never experience the quiet contentment of building a life with someone.
The unfairness of it struck Sylvie, and the truth of the matter was that one of these patrons might have the answers as to why Heather’s life was cut short.
The woman in front of Sylvie finally finished her order.
“What can I get you this morning?” the cashier asked with a guarded expression.
“I'll have a Chai tea, please.”
“That'll be four seventy-five.”
Sylvie unzipped her cross-body purse. After retrieving the company credit card, she tapped the back of it on the screen.
“You with those others staying out at Bernard's?” the cashier inquired, her tone suggesting she already knew the answer.
“Yes, ma'am.”
The woman's mouth tightened into a thin line as the small machine beeped, confirming the transaction. Sylvie tucked the card back into her wallet and waited patiently for the receipt to print out. There was no point in asking any questions about Heather Moore when the answers wouldn’t come freely at the moment.
Sylvie's attention drifted over the woman’s shoulder to a cork bulletin board mounted on the wall.
The board was crowded with photographs of various intricate wedding cakes and creative birthday cupcakes.
Some of the pictures even held snapshots of locals’ lives.
One in particular caught Sylvie’s attention.
Heather Moore’s heart-shaped face was smiling at the camera in an obvious selfie.
She was slightly off-center in the way that suggested it had been taken quickly, perhaps even impulsively.
Heather stood close to a man approximately her age, their heads tilted together in front of an elaborately decorated cake.
The confection behind them was a three-tiered masterpiece with delicate sugar flowers cascading down one side, the kind of cake that spoke of painstakingly long hours of work.
The cashier suddenly tore the receipt from the small printer with a sharp motion, pulling Sylvie’s attention back her way.
“Here's your receipt.” The woman held out the small slip of paper between two fingers, her eyes narrowed in judgment.
“Let me give you a piece of friendly advice.
Take your investigation elsewhere. You coming here digging into the Moore girl's death makes it seem like you think one of us killed her.”
The accusation hung in the air. The cashier's gaze didn't waver. Around them, the bakery had grown impossibly quieter, conversations suspended mid-sentence as customers strained to overhear.
Sylvie deliberately took her time responding. She tucked the receipt inside her purse with deliberate slowness. When she finally spoke, she kept her voice level but loud enough to carry throughout the bakery. This had never been a private conversation.
“We're not here to accuse anyone, ma'am,” Sylvie said as she zipped her purse closed.
“We're here to learn more about Heather in hopes that it helps lead us to her killer. I realize that it’s been eleven years, but if she came in here often, did you notice someone following her?
Someone who didn't belong? Maybe she drove into another town, and someone followed her home. It’s important to understand that we're not the enemy, ma'am.
We're here because another set of parents wants answers as to why their daughter is gone, and we believe we can find those answers here.”
The cashier's expression faltered slightly, her certainty disrupted by the unexpected direction Sylvie's inquiries and statements took.
The young barista, putting together the orders, had stopped pretending to work and was openly observing the exchange.
A mug clattered against a tabletop somewhere behind Sylvie.
She didn't turn around, keeping her attention fixed on the cashier, who hadn’t expected Sylvie to counter her advice.
“Heather was one of ours,” the woman finally said, her voice less confrontational but no less certain. “We would have known had someone been giving her trouble.”
“I believe you,” Sylvie replied gently. “But someone did hurt her. And we’d like to find out who that was, for Heather's sake. For her parents. For all the parents who deserve to know what happened to their children taken from them too soon.”
“My name is Kim,” she replied with a short nod, neither in agreement nor disagreement. She appeared to be merely acknowledging Sylvie's words. “Your tea will be ready in a minute.”
The dismissal was clear, but Sylvie counted it as a small victory. She'd managed to plant a seed. The notion that she and the team were hunting a predator, not accusing a neighbor. Whether that seed would take root remained to be seen, but it was a start.
In her peripheral vision, she noticed someone behind the display.
She hadn’t realized that a man had been listening to the entire exchange.
He was holding a tray of freshly baked scones.
As if he realized she’d detected his presence, he met her gaze.
Keeping an impassive expression, she recognized him as the same man from the photograph with Heather Moore.
He was older now, of course.
The photograph had been taken over a decade ago.
Fine lines had formed at the corners of his eyes, and his dark hair wasn’t as thick.
Behind him, partially obscured by a shelf of bread loaves, hung another framed photograph.
This one with him standing beside an older woman with similar features—the same straight nose, the same set to the jaw.
They stood in front of the bakery counter, the woman's hand resting on his shoulder with maternal pride. The small plaque beneath the photo read ‘Margaret and Desmond Brewer, 2010’.
Desmond Brewer, owner of the bakery.
Sylvie turned her attention back toward the bulletin board. In most of the pictures, Desmond stood straight-backed and formal beside brides and grooms, high school graduates, and beaming parents, maintaining the same careful distance in each image.
Except in the photo with Heather, where they stood close enough that their shoulders touched. The proximity in the picture spoke of familiarity.
“Chai tea,” the barista called out, setting the steaming cup on the counter. “Lids are over on the back counter.”
Sylvie murmured her appreciation as she collected her drink.
The initial hostility from the patrons had morphed into a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
Conversations had resumed, though in hushed tones.
A woman near the window was texting rapidly, no doubt spreading news of the exchange throughout the small community.
Sylvie closed the distance to the back counter. She lifted a white lid off the small stack, taking the time to ensure it was sealed around the rim of the to-go cup. All the while, she debated going to the bakery kitchen to ask Demond questions about his relationship with Heather.
Deciding to wait for a more appropriate time when there was some privacy, she glanced over her shoulder as she headed for the exit. To her surprise, she caught Desmond Brewer's gaze, fixed on her with an intensity that hinted at unspoken knowledge.