Page 11 of Bear and Order

After a brief pause she replies, “How can I help you, Inspector?”

"Information about a legal document," I tell her, glancing toward the bakery in the distance. "Specifically, who would have access to create something convincing enough to pass as official."

The question hangs between us, because forged documents don't appear from nowhere — someone made this one and distributed it and wanted people to believe it, and that requires knowledge, access, and a specific kind of deliberate intent. I tighten my grip on the receiver and wait for her response, because I'm fairly certain I'm finally asking the right question.

7

JUNIPER

The order sheet sits open on the counter while I compare it against the ingredient inventory. At least, that's what I'm supposed to be doing. Instead, my attention keeps drifting toward the numbers — every cancellation a quiet bruise, every customer who stays a small, hard-won victory.

My phone vibrates. Then again.

I glance down at the message preview and my stomach sinks before I've read a word. Nobody develops that reaction to good news.

Hello, Juniper. Unfortunately, we'll need to cancel our order for next week's luncheon. We've decided to go in another direction

I read it again. The words don't change — they never do. A hollow feeling settles somewhere behind my ribs, not because the order was enormous, but because it was enough. Enough to matter. I lock the phone face down on the counter and reach for my pen. The bakery doesn't stop because my heart hurts.

"June?"

I look up. Ollie stands in the kitchen doorway, and his expression shifts the moment it finds mine.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," I say, forcing a smile.

His eyes narrow. That's your fake smile."

"I don't have a fake smile."

"You absolutely do." He steps closer, folding his arms. "The order?"

I hate that he knows me so well. I look away, which answers the question well enough.

He exhales. "Another cancellation?"

"Apparently." The word tastes bitter on my tongue.

"They're idiots," he declares, and a chuckle escapes me — small, weak, real.

"That's not very professional," I say.

"I don't care," he replies simply. "I don't own a bakery."

"I do."

"Exactly. So I'll say what you can't."

That earns a reluctant smile. Ollie's expression softens, and I see the question forming before he asks it.

"You okay?"

No. Not remotely. But saying that out loud fixes nothing, so I straighten the order sheet and give him a better smile — a more convincing one.

"We have work to do."

He watches me for a while, then nods. Not because he believes me. Because he's letting me keep my dignity, and somehow that single quiet concession makes everything worse.