Her gaze darted from the badge to his grim face, then to the other agents flanking him like sentries. A breathless laugh escaped her lips. "This has to be a mistake."
But no one laughed with her.
The bakery fell silent, the kind of quiet that feels like a physical weight. Mary Peterson set down her half-eaten Danish withtrembling fingers. Mr. Wilson's coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth, his usual easy smile vanishing.
"Step away from the counter, Ms. Everett." The agent's voice was calm, implacable. "Hands where we can see them."
Hannah's pulse thundered in her ears as she backed up, the counter's edge digging into her spine. Her fingers gripped the stainless steel like an anchor. "Wait, what? No, I don't?—"
"Hannah Everett, you are under arrest for potential involvement in financial crimes, including conspiracy to commit fraud and money laundering."
The words hit like a physical blow. Nausea rolled through her stomach as the room blurred at the edges. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
But then came the bite of metal against her wrists—cold and sharp and undeniably real.
"Wait—wait!" Panic clawed up her throat as she struggled against their grip. "This is wrong! You have the wrong person!"
The agent continued reading her rights, his voice cutting through her protests like a blade. The familiar walls of her bakery seemed to close in, the morning sunlight suddenly harsh and accusing.
She caught glimpses of faces she'd known her entire life—Billy frozen by the door, his boyish grin replaced by shock; Mary's knuckles white around her cane; Mr. Wilson shaking his head in slow disbelief. People who'd watched her grow up, who'd celebrated every milestone, now stared at her like she was a stranger.
A camera clicked. Someone whispered. The sound grew, spreading through her bakery like poison.
Tears burned her eyes as a lifetime of trust crumbled around her. Then her mind latched onto the only lifeline it could find.
Jake.
Jake would fix this. That's what he did—he fixed things. He fixed her sink, he fixed her awning. Her breath hitched as the agents guided her toward the door. "Please," she gasped. "Let me call someone?—"
The cuffs bit deeper as she twisted toward the agent holding her arm. "I get a call, right?"
He barely glanced at her. "Once you're processed."
Processed. The word sent ice through her veins.
She didn't belong in aprocess. She belonged here, in her grandmother's bakery, where the air smelled like cinnamon and safety and home. Where Jake would come for her, because he always came for her.
The FBI car door slammed shut with a finality that made her flinch. Through the window, she watched Sugar & Spice grow smaller—the warm brick walls, the hand-painted sign, the copper wind chimes her mother had hung years ago. Her entire world, slipping away.
Hannah swallowed hard, forcing down her fear. She just had to call Jake. That's all. He'd fix it, because he loved her. Because somehow he was what made the world feel safe for her. Because he would never let this happen to her.
CHAPTER 6
Hannah
Hannah had walkedthrough the doors of the Crystal Lake Police Station countless times before. She'd brought coffee and pastries to Officer Mercer during his night shifts. Had chatted with Linda at the front desk about her daughter's wedding. Had dropped off Christmas cookies every year since she'd taken over the bakery.
But now the familiar brick building felt alien.
FBI agents had transformed the community room into a command center, their equipment foreign against the cheerful posters about neighborhood watch meetings. The fluorescent lights seemed colder, the corridors narrower. Even the air felt different—sterile and sharp, without the usual lingering scent of Linda's potpourri.
The agents guided her through security without speaking. No reassurances. No explanations. Just hands steering her forward, the cuffs biting into her wrists with every step.
Questions burned in her throat, but she swallowed them back. If she opened her mouth now, she'd start crying. And she couldn'tcry. Not here. Not in front of these strangers who'd invaded her town, who'd dragged her from her bakery like she was dangerous.
She rubbed at her wrists when the tight cuffs were finally released.
"Remove your jewelry." The processing officer's voice was flat, professional. Like this was just another Tuesday morning.
