Page 9
"Clearly," he replies, and steps inside without further discussion, gripping the other side of the machine. The effort becomes easier immediately — annoyingly, effortlessly easier.
"I didn't ask for help," I point out.
"No," he agrees simply.
Together we maneuver the mixer through the doorway, and once it's outside I wipe sweat from my forehead and thank him, and he nods once and then studies my expression with the focused attention of someone who doesn't miss much. "You look upset," he observes.
"A customer mentioned health violations," I tell him, and genuine confusion crosses his face — not polite confusion, actual confusion.
"That's not in any report," he says.
"I know," I reply. "Two girls came in. One tried leaving because apparently we're now famous for health violations that don't exist." His expression hardens and I continue before I lose momentum, telling him about the canceled Willow Creek contract, and I watch something shift in his face — the careful assembly of pieces clicking into a pattern he doesn't like.
Then the back door bursts open and Ollie appears carrying a clipboard, his face pale in a manner that makes my stomach drop before he says a single word.
"June," he starts, and that tone alone tells me everything.
"What happened?" I ask.
"The inventory," he replies, and cold dread slides down my spine.
"What about it?"
"It's missing," he says, shoving the clipboard toward me. Several entries are highlighted — ingredients, packaging supplies, decorative materials purchased specifically for large orders. I look through the numbers and ask where it went, and he tells me he checked storage and receiving and the overflow shelves and found nothing.
"I even tried tracking it," he adds, and that catches my attention immediately, because Ollie is a raccoon shifter and his sense of smell borders on the unreasonable.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says, his jaw tightening. "I couldn't find a scent — it's like they were never there."
The silence that comes sits heavily over all of us. The broken mixer beside us, the canceled contract in my pocket, the health violation rumors still ringing in my ears, and now inventory that disappeared without a trace. One thing could be bad luck. Two could be coincidence. All of this together is something else entirely, and the realization settles into place with a quiet, terrible certainty — someone is doing this deliberately. Not random accidents or unfortunate timing or a bad season, but a sustained and careful campaign against Sweetbell Bakery, and whoever is behind it has been patient enough and clever enough that I've been dismissing the evidence for months.
I evaluate the inventory report and then on the street beyond the doorway, and a chill moves through me. Beside me, Brock remains silent — listening, watching, thinking.
To my surprise, I've stopped finding his presence irritating. I find it reassuring instead, and somehow that is the most unsettling development of the entire day.
6
BROCK
The secretary adjusts her glasses and studies the paper I place on her desk, and I remain standing while she reads it. The document looks official enough — Council seal, Council formatting, Council language — which is precisely why it bothers me. A forged document only works if people believe it, and judging by what happened at Sweetbell Bakery, people believed this one.
"Where did you get this?" she asks, glancing up.
"A customer received it," I answer, and her eyebrows draw together.
"Received it from who?" A filing cabinet opens before I can respond, folders appearing and then more folders as she searches quietly. Eventually she places them on the desk and compares them to the warning, and the frown on her face deepens steadily.
"Something wrong?" I ask.
"Several things," she replies, sliding an official notice beside the warning. "Look here." I step closer, and the difference isn't obvious immediately, but then I notice it — the seal, the spacing, the formatting, tiny inconsistencies of the sort most people would never catch.
"This isn't our seal," she says, tapping the corner of the page. "The reference number doesn't exist either."
"You're certain?" I ask.
"Positive," she answers, opening another file and then another, her certainty only growing with each comparison. "This document never came from town hall." The words settle deeply, and I look at the warning and then at the legitimate notices and then back again. Someone created this deliberately — not accidentally, not carelessly, but with enough skill and patience to make it convincing.
