She'd spent her entire adult life attempting to create a version of normalcy that could accommodate both who she was and who he had been. Perhaps engaging rather than deflecting was the more effective strategy in this moment.
“They get it right sometimes,” Brook conceded, sliding her credit card back into the small pocket on the phone case. “The fundamentals are based in behavioral science, not mysticism, though. It's about observation, pattern recognition, and understanding human motivation.”
Kim's expression shifted slightly, surprise replacing some of her distrust. She hadn't expected an actual answer.
“So, you can look at someone and just know things about them? Their secrets?”
“Not secrets,” Brook corrected as she tucked her phone into her pocket. “Behaviors, choices, priorities—these things leave visible markers on our lives. Most people don't notice because they're too absorbed in their own daily routines.”
Kim finally reached for the receipt and held it out to Brook.
“Can you do it now?” The question carried a challenge, but also a hint of genuine curiosity. Kim crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one hip. “To someone here?”
Brook could easily make an excuse about being in a hurry, about needing to get back to her team. That would be the professional choice. Yet she also believed the killer was connected to this community, these people.
Perhaps a demonstration would loosen a few tongues.
“I can do one better,” Brook said as she tucked the receipt into her pocket next to her phone. “I can tell you about yourself.”
The slight widening of Kim's eyes told Brook she hadn't expected that response. In her peripheral vision, Brook registered the shifting postures of the patrons, their bodies angling toward the counter with renewed interest. A heavyset man in the corner folded his newspaper, not bothering to hide his attention at all.
“Alright. Go ahead.”
Brook took in Kim's posture, her clothing, the subtle tells that people rarely realized they broadcast to the world. Ragged cuticles and small patches of raw skin were visible around her thumbnails. A nervous habit, one that spoke of anxiety managed through physical outlet. The slight yellow stain on her right index and middle fingers stood out, as well. The hue wasn’t the deep discoloration of a lifetime smoker, but the subtler mark of someone who indulged occasionally, perhaps during stress or when no one was looking.
“You bite your nails when you're worried,” Brook began, her voice carrying easily in the now-silent bakery. “Not all the time, just when something's weighing on you. And you smoke, though you try to hide it. Probably out back, during breaks. Quick cigarettes that you don't fully enjoy but can't quite give up.”
Kim's fingers curled inward reflexively, as if to hide the evidence Brook had already cataloged. The woman narrowed her eyes in response, but she didn't interrupt.
“There's the slightest tan line on your left ring finger,” Brook continued, nodding toward Kim's hand. “Not recent—the skin tone has mostly evened out—but you still twist the absent ring with your thumb when you're thinking. Divorce, not death. You'd keep wearing it if he'd died.”
A whisper rippled through the bakery, quickly silenced as Brook continued her assessment. Kim's posture had stiffened, her chin lifting slightly as if bracing for more.
“You're comfortable with your appearance—casual clothes, hair neatly styled, but not overdone. The damage at the ends tells me you’ve been searching for the right color but haven’t found it yet. You recently adopted a dog.” Brook gestured toward the fine orange strands clinging to Kim's dark shirt. “Given the color and length, it’s a Golden Retriever. The lint roller you stored under the counter when I entered the bakery suggests that you aren’t accustomed to being covered in dog hair just yet.”
Brook's gaze shifted to the small collection of photographs in the bottom-right corner of the bulletin on the wall behind Kim.
“Three grandchildren—the photos are recent, professionally taken. You've positioned them where you can see them throughout your workday, but also where customers might notice and ask about them.”
Kim's expression had softened slightly, and the defensive set of her shoulders had eased. Around them, the bakery remained utterly still, every patron frozen in mid-motion, coffee cups suspended halfway to lips, forks paused above half-eaten pastries. It was as if they had learned something new about someone they had known their entire lives.
“You've worked here for years, but this isn't just a job to you. You care about this place, about Harrowick.” Brook gestured toward a stack of flyers at the end of the counter. “That's your handwriting on the town hall meeting announcements. Not just promoting it—organizing it. The flyers are printed, but you've added notes in the margins, clarifications, emphasis. You're invested in the auto plant proposal because you see what others don't—that Harrowick is dying, and the next generation won't stay without opportunities. Those grandchildren in the photos—you want them to have the option of building their lives here, not being forced to leave like so many others have.”
Brook turned slightly, taking in the bakery's layout with a sweeping glance.
“This place has evolved under your influence. The café tables, the coffee service expansion—these aren't Desmond's ideas. He's a baker, focused on his craft. You're the one who saw potential for this place to be more than just a bakery. If that auto plant comes, Harrowick will need more than just the diner across the street to serve the influx of workers and management. You're positioning the bakery to capitalize on that growth.”
The silence had taken on a different quality now—no longer the tense quiet of spectators awaiting entertainment, but the deeper stillness of recognition.
“How—” Kim began, then stopped, clearing her throat.
“It's not just looking,” Brook replied, her tone softening. “It's observing and connecting the information between details. And it’s the same skill that helps track serial murderers.”
Brook reached for the coffee cups. With one in each hand, she walked over to the back station. She set them down, chose two lids, and snapped them in place. The steam continued to escape through the small openings, curling upward in delicate wisps that dissipated in the air.
She took her time slipping her fingers into her gloves. Once her hands were protected from the upcoming stroll across the street in the cold, she collected the hot beverages. Before reaching the exit, she paused, turning slightly to address the woman once more.
“You value this town enough to fight for it, Kim. But you're behind that counter because someone once told you that you didn't have what it takes. A parent, maybe, or the ex-husband.” Brook's voice carried just enough to reach every patron. “For what it's worth, I think they were wrong.”
