Page 116 of The Goat Next Door

The air is thick with the scent of sugar, yeast, and fresh coffee. But the second I look toward the counter, my entire body freezes.

Ember is there.

She’s standing behind the cash register, wearing a massive, oversized apron that looks like it belongs to Marge. Her hair is pinned up in a messy, chaotic bun with a flour-dusted pencil sticking out of it.

She’s ringing up a customer, her face arranged into a bright, animated expression as she gestures wildly with her hands, making the elderly man in front of her let out a wheezing laugh.

She looks vibrant. She looks like herself.

But then the customer takes his bag and walks out, the bell chiming behind him, and the shift is instantaneous.

The second the door closes, the bright, sparkling energy completely drains out of her.

Her shoulders drop, a heavy, devastating exhaustion settling into her frame. Her eyes look wide, hollow, and so profoundly sad it makes my breath catch in my throat.

She looks like she’s carrying the weight of the entire town on her shoulders.

Marge comes out from the back kitchen with a tray of fresh croissants. She takes one look at Ember, sets the tray down, and does something I have never seen her do in the fifteen years I’ve lived in this town.

She pulls Ember into a tight hug.

Ember stiffens for a fraction of a second, then leans into the older woman’s shoulder, her eyes closing tight as she swallows hard, her shoulders shaking just enough for me to know she’s fighting back tears.

Even in the middle of whatever this quiet heartbreak is, she pulls back after a second, slaps a smile back onto her flour-dusted face, and says something that makes Marge shake her head with a sad, fond look.

She’s hurting. Everyone in this damn town knows she’s hurting, and she’s still trying to make people laugh. She’s still trying to keep the chaos light.

I step back, my boot catching the edge of the doormat, the bell chiming loudly above me.

Ember’s eyes snap up at the sound. Our gazes lock across the bakery cases.

The fake, bright smile on her face completely drops, replaced by a cold, distant stillness that makes my stomach drop into my boots.

She just looks right through me, her eyes dead and flat, before she turns her back to me and walks straight into the kitchen, the swinging doors closing behind her.

I stand there, paralyzed, my hand still resting on the door handle.

“Can I help you, Chief?”

I look up. Marge is standing behind the register now, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression cold enough to freeze water. She doesn’t even look at me; she’s staring pointedly at the empty space beside the register.

“I… I just needed the dinner rolls for the station,” I mutter, my voice sounding thin, completely stripped of its usual authority.

Marge doesn’t move. She just stares at the wall behind me. “We’re out of rolls, Brooks. For you, we’re completely out of everything. Send Davis to get them, or someone else. I don’t want you in my shop. Get out.”

I don’t argue. I turn around and walk out into the bright afternoon air, my chest heaving, the image of Ember’s empty, dead gaze burned into the back of my eyelids.

I’m walking toward my truck, my mind a spinning, chaotic mess, when a shadow blocks my path near the sidewalk benches.

I stop.

Standing in a tight, formidable semi-circle right in front of my driver’s side door are Bernice, Hazel, and Dotty.

The three women who effectively run the gossip pipeline of this county, currently dressed in matching pastel cardigans and looking at me like I’m a piece of toxic waste they’ve been tasked with disposing of.

“Chief Lawson,” Bernice says, her voice dripping with an icy correctness that makes my spine straighten. She’s holding a knitting bag like a weapon.

“Bernice,” I say, clearing my throat, trying to step around them. “Ladies. I’m in a bit of a rush, I have to go to the station, I have to pick up Sophie from—”