The bell didn't ring when Arianne stepped in.
Someone had tied it off—string looped tight around the clapper, killing the sound. The door pushed open easy, hinge loose the same as always. She stopped just inside.
The smell hit before she could brace.
Bread. Butter. Sugar. Apple and cinnamon underneath, baked too long at the edges on purpose.
Her stomach turned.
Not nausea. Something older. The smell reached back past all the years and grabbed her by the throat before her brain caught up.
Alex met Layla here.
That was the thought that landed. Not I used to come here after school. Not the table in the corner. Alex met Layla here, and Layla died with him, and Arianne had spent the past week trying not to connect the dots Gilbert had laid out in front of her. The loss was cover, not cause. The structure was built eight months before. You were the point all along.
She had driven here four times in six months. Sat outside each time. Left each time.
The fifth time she stayed.
