“Good morning,” Harlow said, his smirk making a meal out of every syllable. “Got something warm for me, sweetheart?”
Mrs. Appleby straightened behind the counter. “Detective, this is a bakery. You want a cinnamon roll, place an order. Otherwise, state your business.”
He held my gaze. “Maya Belrose. Step forward.”
I did as he said. Not because I wasn’t scared, but because I knew exactly what Mrs. Appleby was capable of when she felt someone was messing with her own.
But I barely made it two steps before she cut me off, planting herself in front of me like she was shielding a grandchild.
“You’re not touching her,” she said. “Not in my store.”
“Mrs. A,” I said quietly and urgently. “It’s okay. Please. Don’t make this worse for yourself.”
Her eyes didn’t leave Harlow, but her voice cracked on the next words. “You don’t deserve this, Maya. None of it.”
I gave her arm a squeeze. “You’ve done enough. Let me handle it.”
She hesitated, stubborn as ever, but finally stepped aside.
And that’s when Harlow pounced.
“You’re under arrest.”
The moment snapped, and the air in the bakery dropped ten degrees. Then came a flash of metal, a rustle of papers,Harlow, smug as a man who thought he’d won, and another officer, closing in behind him.
“You can’t do this!” I barked. “You don’t have jurisdiction!”
Harlow let out an oily laugh. “Oh, sweet pea, I’ve got all the jurisdiction I need. Your sheriff’s in the loop. And trust me, we’re playing nice.”
Mrs. Appleby started to move again as the officer read me my rights, but I pleaded with her one last time. “Please don’t. I’m not letting you get hauled off for me.”
She froze, fists clenched, jaw tight. But she stayed where she was.
The officer dragged me outside. And just like that, I was eighteen again.
Back on that street in Bozeman, dragged barefooted.
The first arrest.
The look on my father’s face, tight with panic as he’d clutched his chest. He’d known there was nothing he could do to stop Harlow from taking me. Still, he’d tried to smile. It was the kind of smile that wasn’t meant to comfort him, only me. Like he’d wanted to shield me from what he already knew was coming.
But then he went down.
His body folded in on itself, his mouth twisting in pain, and there was no masking that. No rewinding it.
I’d screamed his name right then and fought like hell to reach him. God, I fought.
My mother didn’t even look at me.
Maybe I deserved it. Because right then, all she saw was the man she loved, collapsed and lifeless.
And now, here I was again.
Different crime. Same burn.
Only this time, they all saw it. Every face in the bakery, the people gathered outside, even the little boy who used to waveat me through the glass. They didn’t speak. They just stared, as if I’d confirmed what they always suspected.
I kept my head down, my eyes fixed on the concrete as they walked me out. My face felt hot, but my hands were cold. I didn’t fight them, because fighting only gave them something to use against me. I’d learned that the hard way.
