I respected that more than I wanted to.
“Good,” I said. “Then we’re clear.”
She crossed her arms. “You still going to fire me?”
I shook my head once. “No.”
Something loosened in her shoulders.
“Get some sleep,” I added. “Tomorrow starts early.”
She hesitated. “You’re not my boss outside the orchard.”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re not invisible here. Remember that.” I looked around and saw some cars parked in the lot but I didn’t see hers.
“How did you get to The Frosted Mug anyway?” I asked. I didn’t see her car.
“I walked. I knew I’d have to order a beer and I’m a light weight,” she said quietly.
“I can give you a ride back,” I offered.
“Thanks,” she agreed which was surprising. I expected her to protest. I drove us back to Maple Valley. She didn’t say a peep the whole way. I pulled into Maple Valley and stopped in front of the row of cabins.
“Thanks for the ride, Asher.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Have a good night and try to stay out of trouble.”
“You too,” she answered. I noted that she didn’t promise to stay out of trouble.
She held my gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked toward her cabin. I waited in my truck long after she disappeared into the dark. My father had spent his entire career trying to put distance between people like Claire and towns like this. He believed in rules. In order. In stopping damage before it spread. And I was standing here, letting a determined grad student walk straight into the center of it. Because I knew something else too. People like her didn’t stop. They just stopped trusting anyone who tried to stop them.
CHAPTER 4
Claire
I didn’t say much on the drive back. Neither did Asher. The silence felt thick, charged with things neither of us wanted to admit out loud. I stared out the passenger window, jaw tight, replaying the confrontation in my head and hating how easily he’d boxed me in. I didn’t like being cornered. Didn’t like someone assuming they knew my limits better than I did. Or deciding what risks I was allowed to take. Asher Thorne was infuriating, stubborn and self-righteous in that quiet, controlled way that made it worse. And annoyingly good-looking. That thought slipped in uninvited, and I shoved it away just as quickly. Whatever his deal was, whatever his history with this town, I didn’t know it. And I didn’t owe him anything beyond showing up to work and doing my job.
Inside the cabin, I kicked off my boots and dropped onto the edge of the bed, the quiet pressing in around me. My pulse was still elevated, anger buzzing under my skin. I changed into soft pants and an old t-shirt and climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged with my laptop balanced on my thighs. If Asher didn’t want to mind his own business, fine. I’d do what I always did. I’d dig. I’d pulled articles about Val-du-Lys before. AboutMarcel Bellerose’s trial. About the charges that evaporated on appeal. About the shooting that should’ve ended everything and somehow didn’t. But tonight, I went deeper. I adjusted my search terms. Opened older archives. Local papers that didn’t bother hiding their opinions behind objectivity. The name came up again and again.
Marcel Bellerose. Smuggling operations. Gambling rings. Drugs moved through quiet towns that didn’t want to know how their money was kept clean. Then I saw her.Bellerose Daughter Testifies Against Father.I clicked. Harmony Bellerose. The article described her as defiant, courageous and reckless. She was a liability to his operations. She’d cooperated with authorities. Handed over information. Tried to bring the whole thing down from the inside. And worst of all she failed. I leaned back against the headboard and blew out a breath, staring at the screen. Another article followed.Community Divided After Bellerose Daughter Returns to Val-du-Lys.Another click. And then?—
Wedding Announcement: Harmony Bellerose and Eric Thorne.
I’ll be damned. My breath stalled.
Eric Thorne, as in Asher’s brother. The words sat there, heavy and undeniable. Harmony Bellerose hadn’t just come back to town. She’d married into the family that ran half of it. I closed my laptop slowly, my mind racing. If Harmony knew anything, if she’d seen something, heard something, suspected something, it was buried beneath layers of loyalty, danger, and survival. I couldn’t just show up and ask. Not if I wanted answers, but she also tried to bring her father down, which meant she had different values, and she was married the police director’s son, which said what side of the law she believed in. I’d have to find a way to make contact with her. My guess was that she was only a couple of years older than me. I settled my laptopon the bedside table and took out the picture of Sophie and me. It was a photo of us at age ten running through sprinklers in my backyard. She gave it to me the last night I saw her alive. I tucked it away and tried to sleep. Only sleep was restless with unanswered questions and the voice of my best friend asking me to find her justice.
The next morning,after work, I stopped at the bakery on Maple Valley Road. I needed bread. There was no way I could show up to work again without lunch. The bell above the bakery door chimed softly when I stepped inside. The place was warm and bright, sunlight streaming through the front windows and catching on glass cases filled with pastries. It smelled like butter, sugar and yeast, comforting in a way I hadn’t expected.
I scanned the display, then pointed. “Can I get one of those maple butter tarts?”
The woman behind the counter paused. Her smile softened, just slightly. “Good choice.”
“My best friend used to love them,” I said without thinking. “Said nothing else compared.”
Something flickered across her face. Not surprise. Something closer to recognition, or maybe sadness.
“They do that,” she said quietly. “Stick with people. This was one of my mom’s recipes. It’s a definite crowd pleaser.”