Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
The bakery sat dark and empty at four AM.
Brie’s hands trembled as she unlocked the door, the keys jangling in the predawn silence.
Hunter followed close behind, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
In the kitchen, he set the bag on the stainless-steel prep table and unzipped it.
He had professional bug detection equipment inside.
“Stay by the front door,” Hunter said quietly. “Watch for anyone outside.”
Brie positioned herself where she could see through the front windows to Main Street. Empty. Behind her, she heard Hunter moving methodically through the kitchen, the soft beep of electronics punctuating the silence.
He started with the kitchen, scanning every surface, checking behind appliances, running the wand along the underside of prep tables. The industrial mixer. The walk-in cooler. The storage shelves.
Next came the dining area. He checked under tables, behind picture frames, along the crown molding. The office received the same treatment. Her desk, the filing cabinets, the vintage radio she kept on the shelf.
Twenty minutes passed. Brie watched the street gradually lighten from black to deep blue to gray. Still no cars. No pedestrians. No sign of surveillance.
Hunter emerged from the bathroom, the last room. “Nothing. The bakery is clean.”
Relief flooded through her, immediately followed by new anxiety. “Then how are they watching us?”
“External surveillance. Parked cars with sight lines to your windows. Maybe someone in the building across the street with binoculars. Could be customers reporting back.” He packed away the detection equipment.
“But the important thing is they can’t see exactly what goes into each batch. Only what you do near the windows.”
The implication settled over her. Performance. She’d have to perform compliance. Hunter pulled glass vials identical to the ones containing Brennan’s poison from his bag.
“We fill these with water,” he said, lining up the empty vials. “You make a show of ‘poisoning’ batches where watchers might see. But you should make a few contaminated batches. Just in case.”
The logic was sound, but logic didn’t ease the sick feeling in her stomach. “If they catch the deception, Sophie dies immediately.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
At five fifteen, she forced herself to make the first contaminated batch of gingerbread cookies.
She retrieved one real vial from the office, her hands shaking so badly the glass nearly slipped from her fingers.
Brie positioned herself at the prep station in line with the front windows, where anyone watching from the street would have a clear view.
She stared at the clear liquid that looked like water, like nothing, like something completely harmless.
She measured flour into the industrial mixer. Added butter, sugar, molasses. The familiar motions of gingerbread dough felt obscene with what came next. Her hands shook as she measured the poison according to Brennan’s precise instructions. Point-zero-five milliliters per hundred grams of dough.
The clear liquid disappeared into the mixing bowl. Invisible. Undetectable. Death wearing the mask of holiday cheer.
She started the mixer. The machine whirred to life, and the heavy paddle began its work. The poison distributed evenly through the dough. When the mixer stopped, the dough looked perfect. Smelled perfect. Would taste perfect.
She shaped cookies mechanically. Gingerbread bears with raisin eyes. Snowflakes with pearl sugar. Stars dusted with cinnamon. All beautiful. All deadly.
The timer dinged. She pulled them from the oven, and the smell hit her like a physical blow. Cinnamon, ginger, molasses, brown sugar. Everything that meant home and safety and childhood. Her mother’s recipes, perfected over decades, now weaponized.
She put them in a box and wrote a note taped to the lid: “DO NOT SELL.”
The box went on a shelf in her office, right at eye level where she’d see it constantly. A reminder of what she’d done. What she’d have to do again.
At six AM, Jake’s cheerful voice called from the front. “Morning, boss!”
Brie wiped her face quickly, checking that her eyes weren’t red. She forced brightness into her voice. “Morning!”
Jake appeared in the kitchen doorway, unwinding his scarf. “Is Sophie still sick?”
The lie came easier this time, which somehow made it worse. “She’s got a really bad flu. She’s going to be out for the rest of the week.”
“That sucks. Festival week too.” Jake shook his head sympathetically. “Should I bring her some soup or something?”
“Let’s give her space to rest. You know how she is when she’s sick.”
Jake nodded, accepting the explanation without question. Why wouldn’t he? She’d never lied to him before. He had no reason to doubt her now.
She started the morning’s first real batch, cranberry orange scones, a festival favorite. Her movements were deliberately visible as she reached for one of the water vials from the blue-taped box.
She held it up slightly, angling it toward the window. Made a show of nervousness, checking the street, then measuring from the vial into the mixing bowl. Anyone watching would see compliance. Fear. A baker following orders.
The performance exhausted her more than the actual baking. Every gesture had to sell the story. Every glance toward the windows had to carry the right amount of anxiety. She was an actress playing the role of her life, and the audience was invisible.
“You okay, boss?” Jake asked during a lull in the morning prep.
“Just stressed about the festival. And worried about Sophie. So much to do.”
At six thirty, Maggie arrived in a blast of cold air and concern. “Is Sophie feeling any better? I texted her but got no response.”
Brie’s stomach clenched. Of course Maggie had texted. Of course Sophie’s phone was silent.
“Still really sick. She’s probably sleeping off the fever.”
“Maybe one of us should check on her?” Maggie’s brow furrowed with genuine worry, and Brie wanted to scream the truth. Sophie’s not sick. She’s tied to a chair somewhere. I saw her face, terrified and bruised, and I can’t tell you because they’ll kill her.
“Let’s give her space,” Brie managed. “She doesn’t like people seeing her when she’s really down.”
Maggie seemed to accept this, heading to the front to prepare for opening. After she left, Brie leaned against the prep table, nausea rising. The lies were multiplying, getting more complicated, and harder to track.
Hunter appeared beside her, his presence reassuring. “You’re doing what you have to.”
“I’m lying to everyone. About everything.”
The morning rush brought a flood of customers, and with them, paranoia.
Brie became hyperaware of everyone who entered.
The man in the gray coat who lingered near the window, supposedly reading his phone but his eyes kept tracking toward the kitchen.
The woman who ordered coffee but barely drank it, just sat at a corner table watching.
The teenager who seemed to be filming on his phone, the angle suspiciously pointed toward the kitchen.
Any of them could be reporting back to the cartel. Or none of them. She had no way to know.
At five thirty, Jake and Maggie prepared to leave.
“Tell Sophie I hope she feels better,” Maggie said, pulling on her coat. “Maybe I’ll try calling her tonight.”
“She’s probably still sleeping.”
After they left, the silence pressed down like a physical weight. Brie and Hunter stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the day’s work. Cooling racks held innocent batches destined for the festival. But in the office, the proof batches waited in their marked boxes.
At six PM, Hunter’s phone rang. Brennan.
Hunter accepted the video call, and the chemist’s grotesque face filled the screen.
The deterioration had progressed. More patches of fur, more areas where his transformation was stuck between states.
His human eye looked yellowed and bloodshot, while the bear eye rolled independently like it belonged to a different body.
“Show me what you’ve accomplished,” Brennan rasped, his voice weaker than before.
Hunter swept the phone across the kitchen, showing the batches of baking.
“Good.” Brennan’s ruined mouth twisted into something approximating satisfaction. “Very good.”
The camera shifted, and Brie’s heart stopped.
Sophie appeared in the background, tied to the same metal chair.
New bruises darkened her face, and her eyes had sunken deeper into her skull.
She looked worse than before. Beside her, three other figures slumped in their restraints.
Sophie’s head lifted, and she tried to speak.
“Keep baking,” Brennan said, his voice fading in and out with the poor connection. “Leave samples outside your back door tonight. My associate will collect them for testing.”
The screen went black.