“Was that a veiled threat?” Sylvie murmured as she began to shift her weight back and forth. In addition, she lifted the scarf to press it against her red cheeks. “I don’t think he took too kindly to your suggestion that one of the locals murdered Heather Moore.”
“No, he didn’t,” Brook said quietly as she turned to collect their luggage.
Sylvie followed suit, and by the time Brook opened the back of the SUV, another thought had occurred to her. Small towns like Harrowick survived on carefully maintained equilibria. Social balances that had adjusted over time to accommodate tragedy, to absorb it into the collective narrative.
The resistance had already begun.
It would escalate as they dug deeper, too. Someone in this town had information about Heather Moore's death. And by dinnertime, every resident of Harrowick would know that S&E Investigations wasn’t here at the request of the Bureau.
6
Sylvie Deering
January 2026
Tuesday – 9:22am
Sylvie shifted her weight from one foot to the other as the line inched forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. She had expected to attract attention, but she hadn’t counted on the wall of silent hostility that greeted her the moment she'd stepped through the door. This went beyond the insular habits of a small town.
The bakery occupied one of the few thriving businesses on a street lined with vacant storefronts. The slow decay was obvious, and she wasn’t sure what could save it. Inside, however, there was a sense of unity in the deep-rooted friendships among those occupying the booths and tables.
She had deliberately chosen her most casual outfit that morning—worn jeans, a cream-colored cable-knit sweater beneath her winter jacket, and knee-high boots that were practical rather than professional. Her effort had clearly failed. It was evident that Eugene had already spread the word that theyweren’t officially with the Bureau. To them, Sylvie and the others were merely private investigators digging up a past they would rather forget.
A middle-aged woman with weathered skin and dyed, damaged hair stood at the register, making no effort to speed things along. The unhurried exchange with the customer was the only sound breaking the tense stillness that had fallen over the previously chattering patrons.
Sylvie glanced toward the large display window facing the street, the glass fogged along the edges from the temperature difference. Through the middle clear patch, she spotted Bit in the driver’s seat of the tech van, his gray knitted beanie pulled low over his ears as he grinned at his phone. She could tell from his animated expression that he was video chatting with Zoey. The sight of his unguarded happiness caused her to smile.
She wished she had been able to connect with Derek this morning, but he was already in an important board meeting that would take up most of his day. On the bright side, he had been able to send her a picture of Coco. Her pure white cat had curled up in his suit jacket, which meant that he would be picking off cat hair for the remainder of the day.
Sylvie was still in awe at how seamlessly Derek had fit into her carefully structured life. He had enough wealth to support his great-great-grandchildren, yet his ambition matched hers. They had somehow created a partnership that strengthened rather than diminished who they were individually.
That thought inevitably made her mind drift to Heather Moore, whose life had been cut short at twenty-five. A young woman who would never know the joy of finding unexpected love, never experience the quiet contentment of building a life with someone. The unfairness of it struck Sylvie, and the truth of the matter was that one of these patrons might have the answers as to why Heather’s life was cut short.
The woman in front of Sylvie finally finished her order.
“What can I get you this morning?” the cashier asked with a guarded expression.
“I'll have a Chai tea, please.”
“That'll be four seventy-five.”
Sylvie unzipped her cross-body purse. After retrieving the company credit card, she tapped the back of it on the screen.
“You with those others staying out at Bernard's?” the cashier inquired, her tone suggesting she already knew the answer.
“Yes, ma'am.”
The woman's mouth tightened into a thin line as the small machine beeped, confirming the transaction. Sylvie tucked the card back into her wallet and waited patiently for the receipt to print out. There was no point in asking any questions about Heather Moore when the answers wouldn’t come freely at the moment.
Sylvie's attention drifted over the woman’s shoulder to a cork bulletin board mounted on the wall. The board was crowded with photographs of various intricate wedding cakes and creative birthday cupcakes. Some of the pictures even held snapshots of locals’ lives. One in particular caught Sylvie’s attention.
Heather Moore’s heart-shaped face was smiling at the camera in an obvious selfie. She was slightly off-center in the way that suggested it had been taken quickly, perhaps even impulsively. Heather stood close to a man approximately her age, their heads tilted together in front of an elaborately decorated cake. The confection behind them was a three-tiered masterpiece with delicate sugar flowers cascading down one side, the kind of cake that spoke of painstakingly long hours of work.
The cashier suddenly tore the receipt from the small printer with a sharp motion, pulling Sylvie’s attention back her way.
“Here's your receipt.” The woman held out the small slip of paper between two fingers, her eyes narrowed in judgment. “Let me give you a piece of friendly advice. Take your investigation elsewhere. You coming here digging into the Moore girl's death makes it seem like you think one of us killed her.”
The accusation hung in the air. The cashier's gaze didn't waver. Around them, the bakery had grown impossibly quieter, conversations suspended mid-sentence as customers strained to overhear.
