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Dottie’s voice rings throughout the space. “Well, well, look who’s out in the wild.”

I turn and smile at her, but it must not reach my eyes because she studies me for a beat and a line forms between her eyebrows. She turns to look at Deacon, who has abandoned whatever he was working on, and nods.

“What are we having, sweetheart?” She nods toward the case.

“I don’t know.”

“She’s been standing here for four minutes,” Deacon says, his voice a little gentler than usual.

“I’m trying to decide.”

I catch her and Deacon sharing a look in my periphery while I stare unseeing at all the options. I look over at Dottie with her bright red lipstick that I could never in a million years wear and her winged eyeliner, and something in her expression makes those tears I thought were all dried up resurface.

I turn back to the case. “I’ll just have—whatever. The scone, I guess.”

Deacon arches an eyebrow. “Which scone?”

“Whichever. You pick.”

Deacon grabs one and sets it on a plate, then slides it over top of the case toward me.

Dottie is still looking at me. “Sit down with me a minute.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I do have to. Sit down with me. C’mon.” She takes the plate off the top of the case, leads me to one of the two-top tables by the window, and sets it down. Then she pulls out the other chair and looks at me.

I sit.

Deacon comes out from behind the counter. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him out from behind the counter before.

He drags a third chair over to the small table with his boot and sits, then leans his forearm on the table, studying me. He looks somewhat ridiculous at this small table with how big he is, but I’d never tell him that.

I stare at my scone.

“What happened?” Dottie’s words don’t come out as a question.

“Nothing.”

“Collins.”

“Nothing new—just… nothing.” I shake my head, still staring at my plate.

Neither of them says anything. There are only the three of us in the bakery, and it’s quiet except for the humming sound coming from the pastry case.

“I found something out about Caleb.” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because it feels like holding the words in feels as if they’re burning a hole in my tongue.

Both Dottie and Deacon freeze in my periphery, and I finally look up.

“What kind of something?” Dottie asks.

“The kind of thing you don’t come back from.” My throat closes as I try to keep going, and I have to swallow to make space for the words. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

Deacon exhales slowly through his nose, then leans back in the chair, crossing his arms.

“Does anyone know?” Dottie asks.

“Just Ansel. And Nina.” I stare at the scone again, fingering it but unable to pick it up and eat it.