Chapter 3 - The Lies We Bake
I walked back to my house at 9:15 a.m., every step feeling like I was dragging lead weights through wet concrete.
The morning fog had burned off, leaving behind a cold, crisp sunlight that made the red paint on my front porch look stark and vivid against the grey trees. My breakfast cart was still sitting out front, the coffee urn sputtering steam into the cold air.
Two regulars were standing near the folding table—Sheriff Roy Higgins and his deputy, a young guy named Miller.
Sheriff Higgins was a wide-set man in his late fifties with a thick mustache, a silver star pinned to his brown uniform jacket, and a slow, heavy way of talking that usually made people feel safe. Now, looking at him after my conversation with Arthur, all I saw was the man who had helped lock an innocent old man in an asylum.
"Morning, Kiera," Higgins said, tipping the brim of his hat as I approached. "You're late tending the cart today. We were worried the coffee was going to run dry."
I forced a warm, practiced smile onto my face, stepping behind the counter and grabbing two paper cups. "Sorry, Sheriff. Had to run down to the market for more flour and eggs. Coffee's fresh."
I poured the dark, steaming liquid into their cups, my hands remaining remarkably steady. Survival has a way of turning fear into ice.
"Thomas upstairs?" Higgins asked casually, taking a slow sip.
"Sleeping," I replied, handing him his cup. "He worked the late shift at the shop last night. He's exhausted."
Higgins exchanged a brief, unreadable look with his deputy. It lasted less than a second, but to a woman who had spent fourteen years watching men lie, it was as clear as a siren.
"Right," Higgins said, setting two dollars on the table. "Late shift. Lots of work moving through Vane's development sites down by the river. You tell Thomas I dropped by, alright? Tell him we need to catch up about that property boundary issue down on Route 9."
"I'll tell him, Sheriff," I said sweetly.
Higgins nodded, patted my shoulder with a heavy hand, and walked back to his patrol car.
As soon as the cruiser pulled out onto the main road, I turned around and walked back into the house, locking the front door behind me.
I went straight to the pantry. I pulled the fifty-pound bag of pinto beans off the floor, reached into the flour bin, and pulled out the black metal box.
I needed to get the ledger, the cash, and the deeds into my canvas tote bag before Thomas woke up.
I carried the box into the kitchen, setting it gently on the island table. I reached into my pocket for the bronze key—
"Looking for this?" a voice asked from the doorway.
My body went completely rigid.
Thomas was standing in the kitchen doorway. He wasn't wearing his work clothes anymore. He was dressed in clean jeans, a dark jacket, and leather boots. In his right hand, balancing lightly between his thumb and forefinger, was the bronze key with the crooked cross.
His face was completely devoid of emotion. No anger, no surprise, no affection. Just a cold, flat emptiness that chilled me to the marrow.
"Thomas..." I whispered, my voice caught in my throat.
He walked slowly toward the island, stepping around the counter until he was standing just two feet away from me. He set the bronze key down on the wooden surface with a soft, heavy thunk.
"I checked behind the bookshelf ten minutes ago, Kiera," Thomas said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "The plaster was fresh. The box was gone. And then I found this key sitting on your nightstand."
I backed away until my spine hit the kitchen sink. "Thomas, please..."
"Where did you get the key, Kiera?" he asked, leaning his hands flat on the island, towering over the metal box. "Who gave it to you?"
"An old man," I said, tears finally overflowing my eyes. "He came to the yard two nights ago. He begged for a dry place to sleep."
Thomas’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Arthur Vance," he growled under his breath. "The old bastard didn't die in that facility after all. Vane said he escaped six months ago, but we thought he fled south."
"You ruined him, Thomas!" I cried out, the anger finally bursting through my terror. "You stole his house! You stole this house! You locked an innocent man in an asylum for eight years, and you brought me here to live in his stolen life!"
Thomas didn't flinch. He didn't offer an excuse. He just looked at me with those cold, unfamiliar blue eyes.
"I built a life for us, Kiera," Thomas said, his voice dropping into a harsh, guttural tone. "You think that coffee cart pays the mortgage on this place? You think your burritos pay for the roof over your head? Everything we have—this house, the truck, the money in our savings account—was built on the work I did for Julian Vane. I protected you! I kept you safe!"
"You didn't protect me!" I screamed, slamming my hand against the counter. "You lied to me for fourteen years! You turned our home into a crime scene!"
Thomas stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, dark black flip phone. He hit a speed-dial button and raised it to his ear.
"It's Thomas," he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving my face. "She found the box. She knows about Vance. Bring the SUV around to the back road behind the orchard. We need to clean this up before the state inspectors arrive tomorrow."
He closed the phone with a sharp snap and set it on the counter.
He looked at me, a flicker of genuine pity passing through his eyes before fading into cold resolve.
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"I'm sorry, Kiera," Thomas whispered. "I really did love you. But Vane doesn't leave loose ends. And neither do I."
He reached into his waistband and pulled out a heavy black pistol.
