Chapter 24
Ella
The next day, I’m back at the bakery when my phone buzzes with a text.
Nathan: Hope you had a good birthday yesterday, Ella.
With an emoji of a horse after it.
My breath catches.
Because suddenly… I know.
That stupid, throwaway detail I told him in the elevator when we were trapped.
He listened. And that feels bigger than the text itself.
A laugh slips out…half disbelief, half pure joy. I press a flour-dusted hand to my chest and lean against the counter, grinning like an idiot.
God, how long have I been waiting for this? For something real from him, something instead of walls.
My daydream is interrupted when the bakery door swings open, and the bell rings.
Not the light, sing-song chime of a regular customer. This one feels… heavier.
A man walks in. Tall. Broad. Serious energy. He’s wearing a fitted black jacket, dark jeans, and eyes that scan the place like he’s measuring the square footage with his pupils.
He walks past the display case. Pauses by the biscotti. Then approaches the register where I stand.
“Can I help you?” I ask, already wondering if he’s another health inspector or someone about to complain that our almond milk isn’t almondy enough.
He gives a polite smile and pulls out a small leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I’m a private investigator.
The air leaves my body.
“I’m looking for someone,” he continues, calm and professional. “Tall male, late forties to early fifties. Often wears a dark fisherman’s hat. According to reports, he’s been seen near this area frequently.”
I should lie. But my throat betrays me.
“Yes,” I whispered. “He used to come in here. A few times. And once…” My fingers grip the counter. “…once he followed me home. Into my building.”
The man’s eyes sharpen, the weight in them enough to pin me where I stand. He tilts his head. “Can we sit?”
I nod, the word stuck somewhere in my throat.
We take the far corner booth, the flickering light above making the shadows jump on the walls. He sets a notepad on the table and writes something, the scratch of his pen loud.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No.”
“Any scars, tattoos? A limp? A stutter?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Just… the way he stared. Like I wasn’t a person. Like I was something he was… studying.”
The man leans back, lips pressed tight. He hesitates, then lowers his voice, as if afraid the walls might overhear. “He’s dangerous. Highly dangerous. We believe he’s connected to a series of murders.”
Everything in me goes very quiet. Murder. Killer.
Of course. Of course.
Of all the places he could have come… he comes here.
In my head, I spiral. Lucky Ella. Just had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. If there’s a killer in the city, he’ll follow me home. If there’s a psychopath, he’ll sit in my bakery. Jackpot.
He shifts his weight, eyes flicking briefly towards the front windows before landing back on me. “Has he come back? Since that day?” I shake my head, “No. I haven’t seen him since.”
Finally, without another word, the man stands. His boots on tile are too heavy, too final. He reaches the door, pauses with his hand on the knob, then turns back.
“Oh, almost forgot.” He pulls out his wallet, withdraws a business card, and extends it.
“If you think of anything else or see him again, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.”
I take the card, hand trembling. As he opens the door and steps through, my gaze falls on the name.
Taylor Pierce
Private Investigator
The words blur. My pulse roars in my ears. “No freaking way… Ashton! Get the fuck over here!” My voice cracks so loudly I startle myself.
She pops her head out from the kitchen, eyebrows raised. “Did you just swear? You never swear. Should I call someone?”
“Get over here. Now.” I shove the card into her face. “Read this.”
Her eyes flick downward. She freezes. Then her lips part, and she mouths, “What the fuck?
That silly Instagram search was wrong. Nathan’s Taylor Pierce isn’t a woman.
It’s a man and is a private investigator. And he’s been texting Nathan.
Ashton’s brain clearly has gone into overdrive. She’s muttering theories, tossing out connections, spinning webs I can’t catch. But before I can even process further, she’s grabbing her bag.
“Midterms. I have to go,” she says. Then she winks. “You’ll be fine.”
I want to grab her sleeve, beg her not to leave. But she’s already gone.
The bakery, usually warm, has turned hollow without her.
Every creak in the ceiling sounds like a footstep. The shadows seem longer, darker, stretching across the tile.
Get a grip, Ella. It’s just a shop. Just walls and bread.
But my body refuses to listen.
I lock the door with shaky fingers, checking it twice. Relief swells.
Until a bark splits the silence.
A dog lunges at the glass, teeth bared. I shriek, nearly dropping my keys.
“Sorry!” its owner calls, tugging it away.
My laugh is brittle, hysterical. I shake it off.
Moments later, I’ve switched off all the lights to my haunted bakery and locked the door from the outside. And now I start power walking.
The street is nearly empty, the lamps buzzing like faint warnings.
I feel more than hear…
Footsteps. Maybe twenty feet behind me.
Not rushed. Not careless. Measured. Deliberate.
Following.
My chest clamps. My blood screams through my veins. Why me? Of course, it’s me. Lucky me. This is how it ends. Headlines tomorrow: Local baker, gone missing.
Then, a raspy voice cracks the night.
“Did you catch the Mariners game tonight?”
My feet speed up. My pulse roars. My brain shouts, Mariners?
They didn’t even play today.
I stop dead. The epiphany lands like thunder. “The Mariners didn’t play tonight…”
Slowly, I turn.
“Nathan?”
And there he is, stepping from the shadows into the streetlight with those broad shoulders and a half-smirk.
The air whooshes out of me. Relief hits so hard I almost sag against the brick wall.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
He tilts his head, apologetic but cheeky. “Sorry.”
I narrow my eyes. “You know they didn’t play tonight.”
He grins, so clearly not sorry. “I know.”
We walk in step, my heart still racing but for different reasons now. He explains quietly, “Ashton left me a voicemail. Said you might need someone to walk you home tonight.”
My brain buzzes with a mix of irritation and gratitude. “Thank you again for the horse carriage ride, it was…beautiful.”
He nods his head lightly as if it was nothing.
For a moment, silence stretches. Tonight, the world around us is too dark, too quiet, but with him beside me, it feels almost manageable. Almost.
“You ever think the world’s just… getting scarier than it used to be?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He glances at me, expression unreadable. “Yeah…I do.”
Something in his tone makes me shiver, but not from fear this time, but something else.
Finally, we reach our building. My heart is still climbing walls. I linger at the door. “Do you want to come in?”
He sighs softly, like the weight of something unsaid is pressing against his ribs. “I can’t tonight. I have some work to finish.”
Disappointment twists in my chest. What work? Why rush off? Was it connected to Taylor Pierce? Why was Nathan texting him? Questions chew at me. Questions I only feel like I have a right to ask because we had sex, not because he actually gave me this weird permission that we’re close. Which sucks.
This is why you don’t do one-night stands. They never come with rules.
Before I can ask anything, he lifts my chin and kisses me. Soft. Gentle. Enough to undo me completely. I go from pouting to touching his mouth and feeling the small tug in my chest as he deepens the kiss and pulls away too soon.
“Good night, Ella,” he whispers against my lips.
And then he’s gone, leaving me at the door with my thoughts spiraling, not just about killers and detectives and shadows in the night, but about Nathan.
Where is he rushing off to? What secrets is he hiding?
And why does Taylor Pierce, the man hunting someone, always seem to be on his phone?