“—steal your cinnamon rolls,” Maija finishes. “Except he does. Frequently.”
“Maija!” Earl sputters. “We talked about this!”
“Yes. And I told you to stop letting him walk all over you. You’re a grown man, Earl. With buns of your own.”
Eventually, Earl folds like a lawn chair. “Fine. Yes. Willard comes in here like he owns the place. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he makes comments. Zoning codes, fire inspections, permits that might suddenly get... misplaced.”
Maija nods. “Classic corruption. In Finland, we solve this with shame and possibly a duel in the swamp.”
Earl sighs. “She’s visiting in September,” he whispers, eyes wide with meaning. Then he wiggles his eyebrows.
Maija catches it instantly. “Do not waggle. It makes you look like a pervert uncle. In Finland, we send those into the forest.”
I leave a few minutes later, munching a leftover cinnamon roll Earl only gave me after Maija scolded him for being a bad host.
The talk with Earl gave me plenty of noise, but no answers that mattered.
Willard didn’t kill my father over free cinnamon rolls.
Whatever Dad stumbled onto — whatever got him killed — didn’t come from inside a bakery, or a bookstore, or a fae summit permit dispute.
It came from outside Baywood.
And it is something bigger. Darker. Something Willard is helping to protect.
If I don’t find the crack in his armor soon, he won’t just own the donuts.
He’ll own the whole damn town.
COLE
Caspian’s taking me to lunch. The place is Italian, just outside Baywood. I’ve never heard of it but Caspian’s been talking about it for quite some time.
Seemingly nervous, he parks in front of the unassuming restaurant, the kind you wouldn’t look twice at if you didn’t know any better.
The building is narrow, tucked between two larger shops. The door’s slightly chipped, the sign above it faded, but the faint smell of garlic and rosemary wafting from inside makes my mouth water.
“It’s here,” he says, almost reverently, like he’s leading me to some kind of sacred ground. “Hidden gem. Family-run. Traditions,” he adds, quite emphatically. Has he always been this devoted to pasta?
I raise an eyebrow. “How did you hear about this place again?”
“Don’t remember. Doesn’t matter,” he replies quickly, but he’s scratching his neck, a telltale sign that he’s hiding something.
I eye him sideways, suspicion rising. I look at his neat hair, his Hilfiger polo. It looks new.“Have you just had a haircut?” I ask.
Caspian shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.” Something’s definitely going on.
We step inside, and the atmosphere hits me immediately; a warm, welcoming chaos of family. The air’s thick with tomato sauce, herbs, and minced meat. The warm terracotta walls are lined with framed black-and-white photos of people I assume are relatives.
The whole place hums with a comforting, old-world charm.
The only thing missing is staff.
As if on cue, I hear raised voices. Someone’s shouting in Italian behind the beaded curtain that probably leads to the kitchen.
I look at Caspian, ready to exchange amused smiles, but he seems on edge, fidgeting with his collar. Why is he so nervous?
Then the beads on the curtain tremble slightly as a young woman emerges, with one of the most beautiful smiles I’ve ever seen on anyone.
