Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Gina whistles low. “Ouch. Poor guy.”
“Poor guy can take a hint,” I say, tugging the apron strings tight.
Chef Charleston claps his hands. “Listen up. The cake is only as good as your ingredients. Chocolate is the soul of this dessert, so choose wisely. Belgian and Swiss chocolates have a silky, buttery texture, and they melt in your mouth. Mexican and Latin American varieties? Earthy, sometimes with cinnamon or chili notes. American chocolate tends to be brighter, with a hint of tang. Think Hershey’s. African cocoa has a deep and wine-like richness. Every choice changes the story your cake tells.”
Lav leans toward me and whispers, “I didn’t know cake had a story.”
“Everything has a story,” I murmur back.
We settle on a blend—half Belgian, half Latin American—melting the chocolate gently over a double boiler. I stir, watching the chunks soften into a thick gloss. The fragrance wafts up. Good and bad. The fragrance itself is good. The memory it evokes? Not so much.
Yeah. Good and bad.
Gina measures the flour while Lav sifts.
“Don’t overmix once the flour’s in,” I say, more out of habit than anything else. “It toughens the crumb.”
Gina laughs. “Yes, Chef.”
We cream butter and sugar until it’s pale and fluffy, fold in eggs one at a time, and then add the melted chocolate. The batter turns thick and decadent, clinging to the spatula in slow ribbons.
“Perfect,” I say.
Chef Charleston comes by, watching as we scrape the batter into our prepared pans. “Good texture, ladies. Now into the oven. And remember, don’t open the door too soon or you’ll regret it.”
The cakes go in, and the smell fills the room. Gina and Lav lean against the counter, chatting about weekend plans. I listen without adding much while keeping my eyes on the oven window.
When the timer dings, we pull our cakes out. The tops are even, the sides pulling just slightly from the pans. After our cooling time has elapsed, Chef Charleston inspects ours first. He cuts into the center, takes a bite, and nods. “Excellent. Moist crumb, good balance of flavors.”
Lav grins. “We’re a good team.”
Gina nudges me. “You’re the secret weapon.”
I shrug. “Not my first time.” I don’t elaborate.
We break for lunch and head to the cafeteria. Gina and Lav unpack elaborate salads and sparkling water. I’ve got a turkey sandwich and an apple
Lav looks up, her gaze fixed on the doorway. “Speak of the devil.”
Jordan walks in.
His usual posture is gone—no easy smile, no confident stride. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched.
He heads straight for our table.
“Where have you been?” Gina asks, spearing a cherry tomato.
He drops into the chair next to me. “Had to go to the police station.”
I set my sandwich down. “For what?”
He stares at the table. “I noticed a truck following me yesterday morning. Then I get home from my church gig, and a neighbor alerted me to a guy skulking around the house while I was gone.”
Lav’s mouth falls open. “Seriously?”
I say nothing. Already I know it was Hawk.
Jordan raises his head and turns fully toward me now, his voice low but edged. “So tell me. What the hell was your boyfriend doing stalking me yesterday?”
31
HAWK
The barn smells like dust and sweat. Reyes is slumped where I left him, wrists lashed to the support beam. I’ve jammed a sock into his mouth—not that anyone’s close enough to hear him even if he could yell—but it makes me feel better knowing he can’t make a sound.
He’s going to stay here until I figure out what to do with him. But I need to make sure no one else wanders by.
Eagle’s laid up in the hospital. Dad’s still trapped in his own head, words locked behind the aphasia. Raven has no reason to drive all the way out here. That leaves Falcon.
I pull out my phone and call. He answers on the second ring.
“What’s up?” His voice is casual, but that won’t last.
“You headed out toward the old barn today?”
“Nope. Why?”
“Because if you were, I’d tell you to turn around.”
He pauses a moment. I can almost hear his synapses firing as he wonders what the hell I’m up to and why I didn’t involve him. Finally, “All right, I’ll bite. Why?”
I lean against the truck door. The sun’s high and hot, baking the metal. “We have a…guest in the barn. I figured you might not appreciate the surprise.”
Silence again.
Until, “Are you going to explain what the hell you’re talking about?”
“His name’s Hernando Reyes.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t have. He’s a Colombian national who has a vacation home in Austin. He was one of the men—” I stop, jaw tightening. I’m not sure how much my brother knows about Daniela’s past.
“What, what?” he prods.
I sigh. “How much do you know about Daniela’s past?”
Another pause. “Everything. Vinnie told Savannah.”
“Fuck. So you know. Reyes is one of the men who…”