I nod. “Yeah. Just… waiting for someone.”
He looks at me for a little longer than necessary, then shrugs. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything.”
He walks off.
I keep waiting. I finally spot a car that makes my heart jump into my throat. Same general shape. Same general color. Close enough that my brain locks onto it and refuses to let go. I sit up straighter. I watch it. I don’t blink. I don’t look away.
Eventually, a woman comes out of the store and gets into the car. She pulls out of the lot.
I follow. I tell myself I’m just confirming. Just checking. Just being sure. The drive is quiet. Suburban. Normal. She pulls into a driveway. I stop across the street. She gets out of the car. Walks toward the house. The front door opens.
A little boy runs out and wraps himself around her legs. She laughs, bends down, and hugs him. Another kid appears behindhim. Then a man steps into the doorway. He looks at her. Then he looks at me.
His face changes. He takes a step down the driveway and cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey! Can I help you?”
The words hit like a slap.
And suddenly I can see myself. A stranger. Parked across the street. Watching.
My stomach turns. What the hell am I doing? Following people home. Projecting my nightmare onto their lives. This is too far.
I start the car and drive away before he can say anything else.
My hands are shaking on the wheel. I don’t feel relieved. I don’t feel angry.
I’m hollow and exposed.
I drive without thinking until the city reshapes itself into familiar streets.
Until I’m sitting outside a building I thought I was done with.
Chapter 32
Ella
It’s been two weeks since the city’s compliance letter arrived.
Two weeks since the bakery stopped feeling safe and started feeling like a countdown clock.
Today is the day.
I’ve been here since before sunrise, pacing between the counter and the back room like that might somehow help. Every single thing on the list—every citation, every note written in cold municipal language—I’ve touched, fixed, adjusted, or obsessed over until my brain feels frayed.
The shelves are spaced exactly as required by code. I measured them three times.
The fire extinguisher is mounted at the correct height, the bracket drilled in with a confidence I did not feel at the time. The exit sign has been replaced entirely because the flicker might have been nothing, but I couldn’t risknothing.
The storage room looks like it belongs in a magazine. The back hallway is clear. The aisles are wide. The paperwork is printed, stacked, and waiting on the counter, like proof that I tried.
We should be fine.
Wearefine.
And still?—
Given how sketchy the inspection felt the first time, how aggressive the citations were, how fast everything escalated—do I even know if any of this will matter?
The bell above the door jingles.
