Chapter 2 - The Girl in the Gray Sweatshirt
Roman read the note three times.
He didn’t speak.
The bakery pantry suddenly felt too small for a man like him.
Lily remained on the floor beside the stacked flour sacks, arms wrapped around her knees.
I stayed between them, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.
Maybe because Lily had hidden in my bakery.
Maybe because Roman looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.
Or maybe because I had spent enough years dealing with powerful customers to recognize the moment power became useless.
Finally, Roman crouched several feet away from Lily.
“Where did you get this?”
“Under my door.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You don’t tell me anything.”
The words landed harder than shouting would have.
Roman lowered his eyes.
Lily looked away.
I glanced at the note in his hand.
“Can I see it?”
Roman hesitated.
Then handed it over.
The message had been typed.
YOUR MOTHER DID NOT LOSE CONTROL OF HER CAR.
ASK ROMAN WHO KNEW SHE WAS LEAVING THAT NIGHT.
I read it twice.
“What happened the night Lily’s mother died?”
Roman stood.
“We’re not discussing this here.”
Lily immediately tensed.
I looked at him.
“Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
His eyes met mine.
I knew I had stepped somewhere dangerous.
I didn’t care.
“She’s sixteen, not six. Whatever you think you’re protecting her from, she already knows enough to be terrified.”
Roman’s expression hardened.
“You don’t know anything about my family.”
“No. But I know she ran away from your house and hid in a pantry.”
Lily stared at me.
Roman did too.
For a moment, I wondered whether throwing flour at him had been the most reckless thing I would ever do.
Apparently not.
Roman finally looked back at his niece.
“You’re right.”
Lily blinked.
He continued.
“You deserve answers.”
Her shoulders loosened slightly.
Roman turned to me.
“I need to take her somewhere safe.”
“She thinks your house isn’t safe.”
His jaw flexed.
“I heard her.”
“Then where?”
He looked around my pantry.
“No.”
I crossed my arms.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Maybe.”
“Absolutely not.”
Lily spoke quietly.
“I want to stay here.”
Roman closed his eyes for one second.
That surprised me more than anything.
The feared Roman Dawson looked exhausted.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Exhausted.
He glanced at his watch.
“Until closing.”
Lily nodded.
“Fine.”
“But two people stay outside.”
“Roman—”
“Non-negotiable.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re in my bakery.”
“And you’re involved now.”
“I’m involved because your niece hid behind my bread flour.”
“Exactly.”
I wanted to argue.
Then I looked at Lily.
“Fine.”
Roman left twenty minutes later after making several calls.
Two security men remained across the street.
Lily sat in the kitchen while I worked.
At first, she barely spoke.
Then I handed her a tray of unbaked cinnamon knots.
“Want to help?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Neither do most people online. They still make videos about it.”
That got another small smile.
I showed her how to twist the dough.
Her first knot looked like an injured snake.
She stared at it.
“That’s terrible.”
“I’ve sold worse.”
“Seriously?”
“No.”
She laughed again.
We worked for nearly two hours.
By four, flour dusted the front of her gray sweatshirt.
By five, she had made twelve acceptable knots.
At 5:20, Roman returned.
He stood in the kitchen doorway.
Lily was leaning over a tray, brushing warm honey glaze across freshly baked pastries.
She didn’t notice him immediately.
Roman looked at me.
I could see the question in his eyes.
How?
I shrugged.
Pastry therapy.
When Lily finally looked up, her smile vanished.
Not completely.
But enough.
Roman noticed.
“Ready?”
She hesitated.
I spoke before she could.
“She can come back tomorrow.”
Roman looked at me.
Lily looked at him.
“Can I?”
He nodded.
“If you want.”
That night, I closed the bakery at seven.
At 7:15, Roman was still sitting alone at a table near the window.
Lily had left twenty minutes earlier with Sophia.
I approached him.
“We’re closed.”
“I know.”
“That usually means customers leave.”
“I’m not a customer.”
“That makes your presence worse.”
He reached into his coat and placed the note on the table.
“I had people examine it.”
“People?”
“You don’t want details.”
“Probably true.”
“No fingerprints.”
“Printer?”
“Generic.”
“Security cameras?”
“Someone disabled the hallway camera for twelve minutes.”
I stopped.
“You have cameras inside your house?”
“Outside bedrooms, yes.”
“That’s normal for you?”
“No.”
His answer surprised me.
“Then why?”
“Because Lily received another message two months ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did it say?”
Roman’s eyes went cold.
THERE ARE THINGS YOUR UNCLE WILL NEVER TELL YOU.
I sat across from him.
“You didn’t mention that earlier.”
“I didn’t know whether it was real or someone trying to frighten her.”
“And now?”
“Now I know someone has access to my home.”
The bakery felt different after he said that.
Less warm.
More vulnerable.
“Who was in the house last night?”
“Family. Staff. Security.”
“That narrows it down terribly.”
“I’m aware.”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw.
For the first time since I met him, I noticed a small scar near his cheek.
The intimidating details were becoming less important than the tired ones.
“What happened to Lily’s mother?”
He looked through the window.
“Her name was Elena.”
I waited.
“She married my brother when they were twenty-three. Daniel died four years ago from a heart condition nobody knew he had.”
“And Elena?”
“Stayed close to the family afterward. She wanted Lily to have us.”
His voice tightened.
“Last November, Elena called me at 10:14 at night.”
I said nothing.
“She told me she had discovered something concerning Daniel’s old business accounts.”
“What kind of something?”
“She wouldn’t say over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“She sounded afraid.”
I leaned forward.
“What happened?”
“She was supposed to meet me the next morning.”
“But she didn’t.”
“No.”
Roman stared at the table.
“Her car went through a barrier on Lake Shore Drive during a storm.”
My chest tightened.
“Police said accident?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed it?”
“I wanted to.”
That admission sat between us.
“Did Lily know about the phone call?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Roman looked at me.
“My aunt Sophia. Two security men. My financial attorney.”
“And anyone else?”
“Possibly whoever Elena was afraid of.”
I looked at the flour still caught in the seam of Roman’s sleeve from that morning.
“Why keep coming here?”
He knew exactly what I meant.
“Before Lily came.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “Because she stopped eating breakfast.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She barely eats when she’s anxious. Sophia brought home one of your cinnamon rolls two weeks ago. Lily ate the entire thing.”
I stared at him.
“So you came here because of a cinnamon roll?”
“At first.”
“And the fake girlfriend nonsense?”
“That was Sophia.”
“You agreed.”
“I made a poor decision.”
“That might be the first sane thing you’ve said.”
A small smile touched his mouth.
Then disappeared.
“She doesn’t talk to therapists.”
I tilted my head.
“She barely talks to me.”
“Maybe because you speak like a board meeting.”
His eyebrows rose.
I continued.
“You ask direct questions. She shuts down. Then you probably become more direct.”
“That is accurate.”
“You need to stop trying to interrogate a grieving teenager.”
“I don’t interrogate her.”
I just looked at him.
He sighed.
“Fine.”
I stood.
“You can bring her tomorrow.”
Roman’s expression shifted.
“Why are you helping?”
I considered the answer.
Because Lily reminded me of myself after my father died.
Because grief made adults awkward and teenagers invisible.
Because my mother had buried herself in work, and I had learned to make bread beside my grandmother because dough never asked whether you were okay.
Instead, I said, “Because she makes terrible cinnamon knots.”
Roman laughed.
It was the first time I heard it.
Low.
Brief.
Real.
It did something strange to my chest.
I ignored that.
The next morning, Lily returned.
And the next.
For five days, she came to Honey & Rye after school.
She learned laminated dough.
She decorated cookies.
She hated piping frosting.
Loved making bread.
And gradually, pieces of her started returning.
Roman usually arrived near closing.
He never stayed far.
I began noticing things.
He always let Lily walk through doors first.
He knew exactly how she took her hot chocolate.
He never checked his phone while she was speaking.
He also terrified delivery drivers simply by standing near the loading entrance.
On Friday evening, Lily and I were alone in the kitchen.
Roman was supposed to pick her up at seven.
At 6:40, she said, “Do you like him?”
I nearly dropped a tray.
“What?”
“My uncle.”
“I tolerate him.”
“That means yes.”
“It absolutely does not.”
She smirked.
“You know, he talks about you.”
I turned slowly.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He asked Sophia whether you always work so late.”
“That is a normal question.”
“He asked what kind of flowers you like.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
Lily shrugged.
“He’s bad at this.”
“At what?”
She gave me the most teenage look imaginable.
“Being human.”
I laughed.
Then the lights went out.
Every light.
The ovens.
The refrigerator hum.
The music.
Everything.
The bakery fell silent.
Lily froze.
“Clare?”
“It’s okay.”
I reached for my phone.
Before I could turn on the flashlight, the back door slammed.
My heart stopped.
Someone had entered the kitchen.
I grabbed Lily’s wrist.
“Stay behind me.”
A shadow moved near the storage room.
I switched on my flashlight.
Nobody.
Then I saw the back door.
Open.
Cold air spilling inside.
On the floor lay an envelope.
Lily made a frightened sound.
I crouched.
On the front, typed in black letters, were three words.
FOR LILY DAWSON.
“Don’t touch it,” I said.
Too late.
Lily had already picked it up.
She tore it open.
Inside was a photograph.
Her mother.
Elena.
Standing outside Honey & Rye Bakery.
I stared at it.
The photo was old.
At least several months.
On the back, somebody had written:
SHE CAME HERE BEFORE SHE DIED.
Lily looked at me.
“You knew my mom?”
“No.”
“Then why was she here?”
“I don’t know.”
The lights suddenly flickered back on.
And Roman rushed through the front door.
He saw Lily’s face.
Then the photograph.
Then me.
“What happened?”
I handed it to him.
Roman stared at the image.
His face drained of color.
“Roman?”
He flipped the photograph over.
Read the message.
Then whispered something I almost didn’t hear.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
He lifted his eyes.
“Because Elena came here the night before she died.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know?”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“Because she sent me a text from this address.”
The bakery suddenly felt very cold.
I looked around at the walls I had owned for four years.
At my ovens.
My counters.
My little tables.
Everything I thought I understood.
“What did the text say?”
Roman looked at Lily.
Then at me.
And for the first time, real fear appeared in his expression.
“It said, ‘I found the person Daniel was hiding everything from.’”
Lily whispered, “Who?”
Roman’s eyes stayed on me.
“I never knew.”
Then he turned the photograph around.
In the bakery window behind Elena, reflected faintly in the glass, stood another figure.
A man.
Watching her.
And even though the image was blurred, Roman recognized him immediately.
May you like
“My uncle.”
---
