Page 180 of This Life of Mine

He nods once. “It’s a fair assumption.”

He pulls out his phone and steps a few feet away, already dialing. I hear his voice drop into that calm, controlled tone he uses when things matter.

“Reese,” he says. “Can you examine Virginia Allister’s medical records? End-of-life care. Caregivers. Medication changes. Anything unusual. I want a full picture.”

A pause.

“Yes,” he adds. “Discreetly. As fast as you can.”

He ends the call and comes back to me.

“We’ll know more soon,” he says, steady and reassuring.

I nod, though my chest feels tight. If I’m right—if Elinor didn’t just exploit death butcausedit—then this isn’t only about me anymore. If Virginia and David were both in her way…

Then it’s inevitable that I’m next.

We stay at my place most of the afternoon.

Alex is quiet but focused, moving between calls and whatever Reese keeps feeding him—documents, timelines, things I don’t ask to see because I know my limits. I keep myself busy in the kitchen, making lunch, grounding myself in something familiar.

Focaccia sandwiches. His favorite.

Watching him eat, actually relax for a moment, feels oddly domestic—like this is a normal day instead of one stitched together by danger and secrets. The hours blur together faster than I expect them to.

Earlier, Val texted to say she can’t make it in to help prep for tomorrow. Her little one isn’t well. Completely normal. Completely understandable.

That’s when I tell Alex I need to go into the bakery.

“I can’t sit here anymore,” I admit. “Working helps. It keeps my head straight.”

He nods. “Let’s go, love,” he says.

He drives us, one hand steady on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing my knee like a quiet reminder that he’s there.

When we arrive, I unlock the door and let us in, the familiar smell of flour and sugar wrapping around me like armor.

Alex does his rounds first.

Checks the back. The alley. The doors. The cameras. Every corner. Every blind spot. He moves through the space as if he belongs there—protective without being intrusive.

Once he’s satisfied, we get to work.

Hours pass in a pace I know by heart. Measuring. Mixing. Kneading.

Alex rolls up his sleeves and jumps right in without being asked, flour dusting his forearms, focus as he mirrors my movements.

It feels…good. To have help without guilt. To have presence without pressure. To not be alone in the work for once.

Then his phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shifts.

“I need to take this, love.”

“Go on,” I reply, already turning back to the dough. I’m in my element. I don’t want to be bothered by more details right now.

Alex slips out the back door from the kitchen, voice murmured as he answers.

I keep working, muscle memory carrying me forward, and I hum to the music playing over the speakers.