Chapter 2 - The Things He Couldn’t Close His Eyes Against
I learned about Caleb from a photograph.
It stood behind a stack of books in the library, half hidden from anyone who wasn’t searching for a missing recipe collection.
Asher was younger in it. Maybe twenty-three. He had one arm around a teenage boy with the same dark hair and a smile so wide it seemed to pull sunlight toward him.
The boy held a crooked birthday cake.
“You made that?” I asked.
Asher stood in the doorway.
I hadn’t heard him approach.
“No.”
“Your brother?”
His gaze moved to the photograph.
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Caleb.”
Something about the past tense settled in my stomach.
I replaced the picture.
“I’m sorry.”
Asher nodded once.
Then he asked whether I had found the cookbook.
We both accepted the escape.
The next week, my father arrived at the bakery without calling.
My assistant, June, saw him through the window and muttered, “Should I hide the good silver?”
“We don’t have silver.”
“I’ll hide the cake forks.”
Thomas inspected the shop as though he owned the square footage occupied by his shoes.
“You look comfortable.”
“I work here.”
“You know what I mean.”
He waited until a customer left before lowering his voice.
“Has Rowe mentioned the western warehouses?”
“No.”
“Any new auditors?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to keep our family solvent.”
“Our family seems to mean your business whenever you need something.”
His face hardened.
“Don’t get clever because an expensive man bought you a kitchen.”
I felt the old embarrassment rise.
Then I looked around at the counters I had paid for, the employees who depended on me, the photographs of cakes I had made before Asher knew my name.
“This kitchen existed before my marriage.”
Thomas glanced toward June, who was polishing a cake server with unnecessary intensity.
He forced a smile.
“Just tell me if he asks about old shipping files.”
After he left, June locked the door behind him.
“I hate when he comes here.”
“So do I.”
It was the first time I had said it aloud.
That evening, Asher arrived home while I was making soup.
I told him about the visit.
He went very still.
“Did your father take anything?”
“No.”
“Ask to use your computer?”
“No. Asher, what’s going on?”
He looked toward the hallway.
For a second, I thought he would give me one of his usual instructions to stay out of his work.
Instead, he pulled out a chair.
“Pike Freight has discrepancies. Old contracts. Transfers that don’t match invoices.”
“And you think my father—”
“I think you should tell me if he comes back.”
“That isn’t the same as answering.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”
I folded my arms.
“You can’t ask me to recognize danger while refusing to tell me what it looks like.”
He stared at me.
Then he nodded.
“You’re right.”
It was such an unfamiliar sentence that I nearly missed what followed.
“Some of the contracts connect to Nolan’s division. I’m reviewing them quietly.”
“Your friend?”
“My employee.”
The correction sounded deliberate.
That night, I woke to a sound outside my room.
Not footsteps.
A crash.
I found Asher in the downstairs sitting room, standing over a broken lamp. His chest moved too quickly. His eyes were open, but they didn’t seem to see me.
“Asher?”
He turned sharply.
I stopped several feet away.
“You’re home,” I said.
His hand braced against the wall.
“It’s Audrey. You’re home.”
For a long moment, he didn’t respond.
Then he looked down at the broken glass.
“Go back upstairs.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then sit down before you become hurt.”
A rough, startled breath escaped him.
It might almost have been a laugh.
He sat.
I brought water and stayed in the chair across from him.
After several minutes, he said, “My brother died in a fire.”
I kept my voice quiet.
“The photograph.”
“Yes.”
“How old was he?”
“Seventeen.”
I waited.
Asher watched the glass between his hands.
“I was asleep upstairs. Someone set the fire downstairs. By the time I woke, the stairwell was gone.”
His voice remained level.
That made it worse.
“I got out through a window. Caleb didn’t.”
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault.
But the words felt too small for twelve years.
Instead, I asked, “Has anyone helped you with the nightmares?”
“People have tried.”
“Have you let them?”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“No.”
Outside, wind moved through the trees.
I sat with him until dawn.
When I finally stood, he reached for my hand.
Only for a second.
Then he released it.
The next afternoon, Ethan Cole, his security chief, came to the bakery.
His face told me something had happened before he spoke.
“There’s been an incident.”
May you like
My hands went numb.
“Where’s my husband?”
