Chapter 7 - The Secret Nico Had Been Hiding From EveryoneThe next forty-eight hours taught me something important about fear.

It rarely arrives alone.

Fear brings questions.

Questions bring memories.

And memories have a cruel habit of making ordinary moments feel dangerous.

When my apartment had been entered, I'd felt afraid of being alone.

When Julian accused me of theft, I'd been afraid nobody would believe me.

But now, after learning that somebody had used my name to deliver forged financial documents accusing Nico of fraud, I was afraid of what the truth might cost everyone involved.

The following morning, Nico called.

"Have you eaten?"

I was sitting at Maya's kitchen table, staring at a piece of toast.

"Technically."

"Technically?"

"I looked at breakfast."

He sighed.

"Clara."

I smiled faintly.

"I'm okay."

He was silent for a moment.

Then he said, "I need to tell you something."

My stomach tightened.

"That sentence is becoming one of my least favorite things."

"I know."

"How bad?"

He took a breath.

"Years ago, when Marco died, I kept copies of some of his business records. They contained evidence of transactions my father and other people had tried to conceal."

I stared at the wall.

"What kind of transactions?"

"Illegal freight arrangements. Extortion payments. False shipping manifests. Some involved men who still operate businesses today."

I closed my eyes.

"And Rourke?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you give those records to police?"

A long silence followed.

"Because some of them implicated Marco."

I froze.

"Your brother?"

"He had begun trying to expose the operation, but before that, he'd signed documents that helped it function."

I thought about Mia.

Rosa.

The photographs of Marco on the walls of their house.

"And you were trying to protect his reputation."

"Yes."

I swallowed.

"What about Anna?"

"Anna wanted those records released. She believed the only way to stop Rourke was to show investigators the entire system, including our family's involvement."

I leaned forward.

"Did you argue with her?"

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

His voice became rough.

"I told her she didn't understand what she was asking me to destroy."

I felt cold.

"And she died before you made things right."

"Yes."

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then I asked, "What are you going to do now?"

"I've instructed Andrew to arrange for the records to be preserved and disclosed through counsel to the appropriate investigators."

I stared at the phone.

"All of them?"

"Everything relevant and authentic. Including the things that make me look bad."

My throat tightened.

"Why now?"

He was quiet.

Then he said, "Because I spent eleven years telling myself I was protecting my brother. But maybe I've just been protecting my own fear of losing him all over again."

I looked down.

"That must hurt."

"It does."

He paused.

"And there's something else."

I closed my eyes.

"Nico."

"I need you to understand what my past means. Disclosing those records could expose me to scrutiny for things I did years ago. It could affect my company. I can't promise the outcome."

I appreciated the honesty.

But I was afraid.

And fear sometimes makes us say exactly what we mean.

"I don't want to fall in love with somebody who thinks the rules don't apply to him."

Silence.

The words startled me.

Fall in love.

Had I really said that?

Nico didn't seize on them.

Didn't turn the conversation into a romantic declaration.

Instead, he answered the part that mattered.

"Neither do I, Clara."

I swallowed.

Then I said, "If someone threatens me, you don't get to hurt them in my name."

A longer silence.

Finally, he said, "I can promise not to use violence as revenge. If anyone poses an immediate danger, my first priority will be keeping people safe and involving the authorities. I won't pretend I can make every situation simple."

I closed my eyes.

It wasn't a fairy-tale promise.

But it was real.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He exhaled.

Then he said quietly, "And Clara?"

"Yes?"

"You deserve to fall in love without being afraid of what the person will ask you to excuse."

I sat with that sentence long after we ended the call.

That afternoon, I met Lillian and Evelyn at the bakery.

Winter & Rye remained closed while the financial review continued.

The Christmas garlands were still hanging.

The cake display stood empty.

Flour dust covered the stainless-steel counters.

Seeing the place quiet made my heart ache.

Lillian sat at a table with her walker beside her.

Rebecca had driven her.

She held a folder.

"Clara, I need your help."

I sat down.

"Anything."

Evelyn smiled.

"Let's hear what it is before you agree to anything."

I laughed nervously.

"Right."

Lillian opened the folder.

The independent accountant had completed a more detailed review.

Eighty-six thousand dollars in suspicious payments had been identified.

Thirty-one thousand dollars in additional transactions required further examination.

Several payroll records had been altered.

And Brenda's proposed sale arrangement contained a provision that would have allowed Harbor Crest Hospitality to acquire certain equipment and trade rights for far less than their estimated value if Winter & Rye defaulted on specified debts.

I stared at the pages.

"They were trying to make the business fail."

"That is one possible interpretation," Rebecca replied. "And we're having counsel review the documents."

Lillian looked at me.

"I was going to sign the sale papers in January."

My stomach dropped.

"What?"

"Brenda told me I had no alternative."

Her eyes filled.

"I thought I was saving enough money to retire."

I reached for her hand.

"You didn't sign."

"No."

She smiled through tears.

"Because your notebook made me ask questions."

I swallowed.

For years, I'd thought my habit of documenting everything was embarrassing.

Now it might have saved the bakery.

Evelyn placed another document before me.

It was an outline of potential financing options.

A small-business loan.

Possible seller financing.

A structured purchase of a minority interest over time.

"Nothing is approved," she explained. "Lillian still needs a formal valuation, and you would need independent business advice. I don't represent either side of a potential ownership transaction."

I looked at her.

"You think I could actually do this?"

"I think you have enough experience and a credible enough business plan to investigate it seriously."

My hands trembled.

Lillian leaned closer.

"Clara, I have something to ask."

"Okay."

"If we can make the numbers work, would you consider becoming my partner?"

I stared at her.

She smiled.

"I don't want a buyer who sees only a building and a profit statement. I want someone who loves that kitchen as much as I do."

My throat closed.

"I don't know what to say."

"Then don't answer today."

She squeezed my hand.

"Think about it."

I looked around the bakery.

At the ovens.

At the brass handles.

At the Christmas lights hanging above the front window.

For the first time, I could imagine myself standing behind that counter without wondering whether someone would eventually tell me I didn't belong.

At four-thirty, my mother appeared outside the bakery.

I saw her through the front window.

For a second, I thought I was imagining things.

She wore a camel-colored wool coat, expensive boots, and the expression she usually reserved for restaurant servers who brought the wrong kind of sparkling water.

She knocked.

I stood still.

Lillian looked toward the door.

"Do you want me to ask her to leave?"

I shook my head.

"No."

I walked over and opened it.

"Mom."

She looked me up and down.

"Clara, what is going on?"

I stepped outside and closed the door behind me.

"Why are you here?"

"Because you won't answer my calls."

"I answered Paige."

"And you were incredibly rude."

I stared at her.

Snow crunched beneath her boots.

"Did you fly back from Aspen?"

"Grant's parents offered us an earlier return flight."

My stomach tightened.

"Because of the article?"

She avoided my eyes.

"There's been some unpleasant attention."

I almost laughed.

"Of course."

She lowered her voice.

"People are saying you're involved with a criminal."

"I'm seeing someone."

"Clara, this isn't a joke."

"I know."

"Do you have any idea what this could do to Paige's future?"

Something inside me snapped.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just cleanly.

"Mom, please tell me why every conversation about my life ends with Paige."

Her mouth tightened.

"Because your sister has responsibilities."

"And I don't?"

"That's not what I said."

"Then what did you mean?"

She exhaled.

"Your situation is different."

I looked at her.

"Because I'm not getting married?"

"Clara."

"Because I'm not thin enough for your photographs?"

"Don't start that again."

"Because I'm not impressive enough?"

Her face hardened.

"You're being deliberately difficult."

I took a breath.

"No. I'm asking you to say what you've spent twenty-eight years implying."

She stared at me.

For a moment, I thought she might finally admit it.

Instead, she said, "You know, this is exactly why I thought Aspen would be easier without you."

The words landed between us.

Quiet.

Final.

I felt something inside me go still.

Then I nodded.

"Thank you."

She blinked.

"For what?"

"For being clear."

I turned toward the door.

"Clara, don't walk away from me."

I stopped.

For twenty-eight years, those words would have been enough.

I would have turned around.

Apologized.

Explained.

Begged.

Instead, I said, "I love you, Mom. But I'm not available for conversations where you insult me and call it concern."

Her eyes widened.

"You can't talk to me that way."

"I just did."

I opened the door.

And walked back into the bakery.

My hands were shaking.

My heart was pounding.

But I didn't cry.

Not until I reached the kitchen.

Lillian was waiting with a cup of tea.

She didn't ask me to explain.

She simply pulled out a chair.

And sat beside me.

That evening, Paige called.

I almost ignored it.

Then I answered.

"Hello."

Her voice sounded different.

Less certain.

"Clara?"

"What?"

"Mom said you threw her out of the bakery."

I closed my eyes.

"Of course she did."

Paige hesitated.

"Did you?"

"No. I told her I wouldn't keep listening to insults."

Silence.

Then Paige said, "I think I owe you an apology."

I froze.

"What?"

"I didn't realize Julian was still contacting Mom."

My stomach tightened.

"What do you mean?"

"He called her yesterday. He said you were unstable and might make false accusations against Brenda."

I stared at the wall.

"Did he ask for anything?"

Paige was silent.

Then she said, "He wanted Mom to sign a statement saying you'd always had problems with money."

I stopped breathing.

"What?"

"He said it would help protect the bakery from a lawsuit."

I felt sick.

"Did she sign it?"

"No."

Relief rushed through me.

Then Paige continued.

"She asked me what I thought."

I closed my eyes.

"What did you say?"

"I said I didn't know enough."

I was silent.

It wasn't the defense I'd wanted.

But it wasn't a lie offered to destroy me.

Paige's voice trembled.

"Clara, I'm starting to think Julian isn't telling us the truth."

I almost laughed.

Then I almost cried.

"Paige, he hasn't told you the truth in years."

"I know."

A pause.

"I think I wanted to believe him because it was easier than admitting we treated you badly."

I stared at the floor.

For the first time, my sister sounded like somebody who understood there was a cost to being cruel.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Julian sent me a draft statement to give Mom."

My heart began pounding.

"Do you still have it?"

"Yes."

"Don't delete anything."

"Why?"

"Because it could matter."

Paige took a breath.

"Clara, are you in danger?"

I looked toward the window.

A dark sedan was parked across the street.

I had noticed it twenty minutes earlier.

It was still there.

"I don't know."

My voice sounded distant.

Then I saw the driver's door open.

A man stepped onto the sidewalk.

Gray hair.

Brown overcoat.

A pale scar near his ear.

My blood went cold.

"Paige, I have to go."

"Clara?"

I backed away from the window.

"Call you later."

I hung up.

Then I called Gabriel.

"There's a man outside Maya's building."

His voice became alert.

"Describe him."

I told him.

Silence.

Then he said, "Do not go outside. Lock the door. Stay away from the windows. I'm contacting police and heading there."

I swallowed.

"Gabriel?"

"Yes?"

"I think it's Peter Harlan."

A long pause.

Then he said, "Clara, stay on the phone."

But before I could answer, the building's entry buzzer sounded.

Once.

Twice.

Then my phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number.

Tell Nico I want the old ledger.

Another message appeared.

He knows what happens when people refuse me.

I stared at the screen.

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Then a third message arrived.

Ask him whether he's willing to lose another woman in a fire.