“I have no idea,” I murmur.
Chapter 24
Ella
The next day, I’m back at the bakery when my phone buzzes with a text.
Nathan:Hope you had a good birthday yesterday, Ella.
With an emoji of a horse after it.
My breath catches.
Because suddenly… I know.
That stupid, throwaway detail I told him in the elevator when we were trapped.
He listened. And that feels bigger than the text itself.
A laugh slips out…half disbelief, half pure joy. I press a flour-dusted hand to my chest and lean against the counter, grinning like an idiot.
God, how long have I been waiting for this? For something real from him, something instead ofwalls.
My daydream is interrupted when the bakery door swings open, and the bell rings.
Not the light, sing-song chime of a regular customer. This one feels… heavier.
A man walks in. Tall. Broad. Serious energy. He’s wearing a fitted black jacket, dark jeans, and eyes that scan the place like he’s measuring the square footage with his pupils.
He walks past the display case. Pauses by the biscotti. Then approaches the register where I stand.
“Can I help you?” I ask, already wondering if he’s another health inspector or someone about to complain that our almond milk isn’talmondyenough.
He gives a polite smile and pulls out a small leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I’m a private investigator.
The air leaves my body.
“I’m looking for someone,” he continues, calm and professional. “Tall male, late forties to early fifties. Often wears a dark fisherman’s hat. According to reports, he’s been seen near this area frequently.”
I should lie. But my throat betrays me.
“Yes,” I whispered. “He used to come in here. A few times. And once…” My fingers grip the counter. “…once he followed me home. Into my building.”
The man’s eyes sharpen, the weight in them enough to pin me where I stand. He tilts his head. “Can we sit?”
I nod, the word stuck somewhere in my throat.
We take the far corner booth, the flickering light above making the shadows jump on the walls. He sets a notepad on the table and writes something, the scratch of his pen loud.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No.”
“Any scars, tattoos? A limp? A stutter?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Just… the way he stared. Like I wasn’t a person. Like I was something he was… studying.”
The man leans back, lips pressed tight. He hesitates, then lowers his voice, as if afraid the walls might overhear. “He’s dangerous. Highly dangerous. We believe he’s connected to a series of murders.”
