I stare at him, and the sounds of the restaurant fade into the background.
Seventy-three days?
That’s ridiculous. It’s insane.
Allof this is insane.
I let out a forced breath, shaking my head again, but slower this time. “No. Because that’s not happening.”
Benedik bites back a grin. “Isn’t it?”
“No.” I laugh, but it sounds thin and unnatural. “Why would a detective be investigatingme? I’m a baker. I wake up at four a.m., I make pastries, and then I go home. That’s it. There is nothing about my life that warrants an investigation.”
He watches me like he’s waiting for me to catch up to something obvious.
What am I supposed to do with this information?
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling unsteady because I’m still waiting for him to tell me he’s joking. “If this is a scare tactic, it’s not working.”
“Miss Graves,” he says patiently, as though he’s explaining something to a child. “Did you ever stop to think about why your bakery has been doing so well? Why your special orders have increased so suddenly? Why certain customers keep coming back for the same things over and over?”
Because they liked our products?
My fingers curl around the strap of my purse like a lifeline. “Because they like our pastries.”
Benedikt smiles, slow and knowing. “Do they?”
I swallow.
I should leave right now.
I should turn around, walk out of here, and pretend this conversation never happened.
But itdidhappen.
And now, I can’t unhear any of it.
Now, I’m thinking about the guy who always picks up a box of éclairs and nothing else. The woman who orders six cinnamon rolls, pays in cash, and never says a word. The sudden influx of bulk orders that Vicki was thrilled about but never really questioned.
It was just business. Just customers.
Wasn’t it?
I look Benedikt in the eye, ignoring the cold, twisting feeling in my stomach. “You’re wrong, Mr. Volkov.”
“I’m hardly wrong about this, Miss Graves. I’ve looked into it. I know it.”
I glance toward the restaurant entrance, my nerves buzzing. It feels like everyone is taking notes.
A detective has been looking into me.
I don’t even know what that means.
I don’t know what I’ve done.
The only thing Idoknow is that I should never have come to this lunch.
I should have listened to my gut, ignored the invitation, and kept my head down. Because now, there’s a weight pressing on my chest that wasn’t there before. And a nagging, terrifying feeling that maybe Benedikt isn’t crazy.
