Wait,what?
“Dirty co—Mr. Volkov, the only illegal thing happening at the bakery is how much butter I use in the croissants.”
His expression doesn’t change. “The phone is tapped.”
My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. “So? Were you looking… to own a bakery or… something? Why would you… Wait; did you saytapped, Mr. Volkov?”
“You take orders,” he continues. “Give them out. Some of those orders contain more than pastries.”
“But you saidtapped.Do you mean like… you’relisteningto orders coming in?”
He tilts his head. “You ever wonder why certain customers are so specific with their orders? Why someone needs three honey-glazed donuts and two chocolate croissants, down to the last detail?”
“Because everyone in the office wants the same donut they had the last time?”
I don’t pay attention. Sure, I remember the regulars’ orders, but my brain is so focused and meddled that information doesn’t stick around long. I’m on to the next order and what needs to be done.
“You don’t believe me.” He’s more amused than offended.
“I… seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You help run an undercover messaging system, Miss Graves.” I gape at him from across the table.
He’s still handsome.
He’s also still hard to read.
My fingers tighten around my napkin as I try to process his words.
Messaging system?
He’s saying this like I knowingly signed up for an underground network of corruption instead of just baking croissants and dealing with annoying customers who don’t know the difference between a macaron and a macaroon.
I study his face for any sign of sarcasm, but he just watches me like he’s waiting for a reaction that makes sense to him.
I don’t have one, though, because this is insane.
Is this why he called me here? Some weird, vague, conspiracy-laced business meeting? So far, the only thing I’m getting out of this is an urge to walk out the door and never look back.
I reach for my purse and straighten my spine. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
“Think about the patterns,” he says. “The repeat customers who never eat inside. The ones who pay in cash and never take a receipt.”
“Tomorrow,” he continues, “You’ll get an order for three dozen donuts.”
“So?”
“Half will be jelly-filled, and three will be honey-glazed.” He leans back again. “Pay attention to who picks it up.”
I shake my head and stand abruptly. “Mr Volkov, I’m busy at work. I don’t pay attention to who orders what and why.”
Normal people buy donuts. Normal people pick up orders. Normal people donothave random, unreadable rich men pulling them aside to make those normal things sound like code for something dangerous.
“Detective Miller Campbell.” He looks up at me. “He’s been scoping your bakery for weeks. He’s also been looking into you. You’ve been under investigation for the past seventy-three days, Miss Graves. Haven’t you noticed him following you?”
Dread creeps up my spine as I stare back at him.
My hands go cold.
