I nodded, though my thoughts were elsewhere. On the encrypted message that had appeared and vanished from my laptop the night before. On the failed login attempt that didn’t feel sloppy enough to be Olivier. My brother was violent,impulsive, but this? This was precise. Calculated. The kind of thing that tugged at instincts I’d spent years trying to bury. Instincts I wasn’t ready to explain to Eric. Not when admitting them meant admitting who I used to be. What I used to do.
“We’ll make him back off,” Eric continued, steady and certain. “Pressure. Visibility. He won’t like either.”
I hoped he was right. But a quiet, uncomfortable truth settled in my chest. If someone else was watching me, someone smarter, quieter than Olivier might only be the distraction.
Eric looked at me then, really looked. “There’s more you’re not saying,” he said gently.
The words sat between us, heavy. I thought of my mother’s voice, of the way Rosalie Bellerose used to hum while she cooked, calling me her little thistle, like strength was something soft and survivable. I thought of the night I left without saying goodbye.
“I know,” I said quietly. “I just… need a little time.”
He didn’t push. He never did when it mattered most. He just nodded once and reached for my hand, grounding me there until exhaustion finally claimed us both.
When I wokethe next morning, frost veiled the small window beside the bed, glittering in the early light. The hum of the wall heater filled the room, steady and low, just enough to keep the October chill from biting. My shoulder still ached from where Olivier had shoved me, a dull reminder that safety in Val-Du-Lys could still splinter without warning.
The cabin was small but sturdy, with one bedroom, a tiny kitchen with a wood stove, and a table by the window overlooking the orchard. The simplicity didn’t feel confining. Itfelt like a pause, the kind I hadn’t given myself in years. Sandy had closed the shop for the long weekend after the break-in. I was grateful for the breathing room. I pushed the quilt aside and stretched. Then came the sound of boots on the porch, the familiar creak of the doorframe, and the smell of coffee that reached me before he even spoke. Eric stepped inside, a backward baseball cap on his head, his plaid jacket dusted with frost. He carried two steaming mugs and a small paper bag, the scent of maple and butter trailing behind him.
“You’re up,” he said quietly, setting the bag on the counter.
“Barely,” I murmured, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “You’ve been out already?”
He handed me a mug. “Checked the orchard. Still a few late apples hanging on the north rows. And I dropped off an early delivery at the bakery.”
I tilted my head. “You’re running on no sleep, and you brought pastries?”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Maple Valley doesn’t ever stop.” He nodded at the paper bag. “Try one. They’re still warm.”
I opened it and the buttery scent hit instantly. It was sweet and familiar, like home. “Butter tart?”
“Thought you might like it,” he said.
I took a bite. The crust crumbled perfectly, the filling melting on my tongue in that rich maple-caramel way that made memories rise too fast. “This tastes like my mother’s.”
Eric looked up, brow furrowing softly. “Yeah? Must be one of the old recipes you left behind. Elise still has access to those,” he said, referring to one of his bakers.
Something heavy slipped into the room. The weight of my leaving town. The fact the only recipe I took with me was my mother’s lemon tarts. Rosalie Bellerose had been warm in all the ways the world wasn’t. Cooking, singing. Losing her cracked something in me that never fully healed.
“Eric,” I said softly, the need to explain rising sharp and fast.
“It’s okay, Harmony,” he replied too quickly. He wanted to shut the conversation down again.
“It’s not okay,” I said. My voice was quiet but steady. “You deserve the truth.”
He stilled, fingers curling around his mug.
“I didn’t leave because of you,” I said. “I left because my father wouldn’t stop trying to pull me into his mess. He was already using me to smooth things over with his clients. Translating. Delivering packages. Looking the other way. When I told him I wanted out after graduation, he said I didn’t get to want anything. That I was part of the business whether I liked it or not.”
Eric’s jaw flexed. “You could’ve told me.”
“I couldn’t,” I whispered. “He was watching everything. Every text. Every call. He knew you hated what he did. If I said anything, he would’ve used you to control me.”
His eyes hardened, but not with anger. With something deeper. “So you ran.”
“I ran,” I admitted. “It was the only way I’d survive it. And maybe I thought you’d hate me less if I just disappeared.”
He set his mug down with a quiet thud. “One day we were talking about leaving town after graduation, and the next, you were gone. No note. No word.”
“I know,” I whispered. “And I’ve lived with that guilt every day since.”
