Sundays had always been their day.
The photograph was slightly faded but still clear – her father standing proudly in front of the Miller Street Inn. His silver hair caught the sunlight, his smile bright as he gestured to the restored Victorian architecture. Hannah remembered that day perfectly. How he'd walked her through each room, explaining the historical details they'd preserved, his eyes lighting up as he'd talked about bringing Crystal Lake's heritage back to life.
"You've got your grandmother's eye for detail," he'd told her, squeezing her shoulder. "The way you notice what people need, what makes them feel at home – that's a gift, Hannah."
She turned the page. Another Sunday memory – this one in Sugar & Spice's kitchen. Her father sat at the counter, readingglasses perched on his nose as he went over the books with her. A half-eaten slice of coffee cake sat beside him. His favorite, made from her grandmother's recipe. The crumb topping with a hint of cardamom.
Her throat tightened. Was anyone making sure he ate properly in prison? Was he getting enough sleep? She imagined the food was terrible, the beds worse. Her father had always been particular about his morning coffee – fresh ground beans, just a splash of cream. Now he probably had to drink whatever they served, likely lukewarm and bitter.
Hannah pulled another photo from the album. A family dinner at the house – before her mother passed, when the dining room had been full of laughter and warmth. Her father had always insisted on proper Sunday dinners. "Business deals come and go," he'd say, "but family time is sacred."
He must be so lonely, so confused by all these accusations. The father she knew would never deliberately hurt people. There had to be an explanation – some misunderstanding about the investments, some paperwork filed wrong, something that would make sense of all this.
Her fingers brushed over another photo – her father at last year's Founder's Day celebration, shaking hands with Michael Harrison. Both men smiling, both excited about the pharmacy's expansion plans. Her father had always been so proud of helping local businesses grow. "This town raised us," he'd told her once. "We owe it to give back."
Hannah closed the album, pressing her hands flat against its worn cover. Maybe she could bring him something when she visited. Not coffee cake – she doubted they'd allow that through security. But surely there was some way to remind him that hewasn't alone. That she still believed in him, still knew him to be the man who had taught her about integrity and community and doing what was right.
Because the man in these photos – the one who had raised her, who had taught her everything she knew about business and trust and family – that man could never be what they claimed.
He just couldn't be.
The soundof breaking glass jerked Hannah from sleep at 4:15 AM.
For a moment, she lay frozen in her bed above the bakery, trying to orient herself in a world that didn't make sense anymore. Her hand reached automatically for Jake's side of the bed before she caught herself.
No. Not his side. Never really his.
Another crash downstairs had her moving. She grabbed her robe, her phone, her keys—all the while telling herself it was probably just the wind knocking something over. Not another person turning against her. Not more destruction. Not?—
Glass crunched under her slippers as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The brick lay amid the shattered remains of her front window, morning dew still clinging to its rough surface.
Hannah's hands shook as she reached for her phone. Who would she even call? The police who'd arrested her? Jake, who?—
No. Not Jake.
She forced her fingers steady as she dialed the non-emergency line. Gave her name. Listened to the long pause that followed.
"We'll send someone when we can, Ms. Everett."
The dismissal in the dispatcher's voice was clear. Hannah ended the call, staring at the brick, at the glass scattered across her grandmother's hardwood floors. At the life she'd built, crumbling piece by piece.
Movement caught her eye through the broken window. Michael Harrison stood across the street, hands in his pockets, watching. Their eyes met through the jagged hole in the glass.
Hannah lifted her chin. Forced herself to hold his gaze.
This is what your father did to us, his eyes seemed to say.
But that wasn't right. Her father helped people. He restored buildings, saved businesses, preserved the town's history. The man they described in those charges—the one who stole people's life savings, who destroyed families—that wasn't her father.
She thought of him at Sunday dinner last week, explaining his latest restoration project. The way his eyes lit up talking about saving the old theater, about keeping Crystal Lake's charm alive. How could that same man have?—
The buzz of her phone interrupted her thoughts. A text from the police:
Officer Bennett will stop by during regular rounds.
Regular rounds could mean hours. And she had bread to bake.
Hannah straightened her shoulders and went to get the broom. Glass crunched under her feet as she swept, each piece catching the pre-dawn light like accusations.
