Page 30 of Bear and Order

"I saw Marissa today."

Something changes immediately. Subtle, small, but noticeable. He sets down his pen. "What did she want?"

The question arrives faster than expected. Interesting. "She offered to help."

"Help how?"

"No clue." I lean back in my chair. "She kept saying she wanted to support me. That we've been friends forever." Brock stays quiet, waiting, and I continue. "She brought food. She was warm. She seemed genuinely concerned."

He folds his arms. "I don't trust her."

The bluntness takes me by surprise. "What?"

"I don't trust her."

"You barely know her."

"I know enough." His gaze stays steady, unbothered by my stare.

I laugh — not because it's funny, but because it's genuinely ridiculous. "Marissa isn't sabotaging my bakery."

"I didn't say she was."

"You implied it."

"No."

"You absolutely did." Brock exhales slowly, and the look he gives me confirms he already regrets this conversation. Unfortunately for him, we're having it anyway. "Every time I've seen her," he says, "something feels off."

. "That's not evidence." I react, shaking my head.

"No."

"That's instinct." he replies.

I point triumphantly. "Exactly. And instinct isn't evidence."

His jaw tightens, which is almost satisfying. "Instinct matters," he says.

"Not more than facts." Neither of us answers immediately, and despite myself, an uncomfortable memory surfaces — the strange unease during Marissa's last visit, something I couldn't place then and still can't now. I push it aside. It's unfair. Marissa deserves better than suspicion built entirely on feelings, especially from me.

"We grew up together," I say quietly.

Brock studies me for a moment. "I know." His expression shifts — not agreement, just understanding. There's a difference, and he knows I can see it.

The words calm between us. Neither of us continues the argument, not because it's finished, but because neither of us has anything new to add. I reach for one of the files instead. "What are we looking at?"

He shifts into investigator mode without hesitation — the transition is almost impressive. Several papers slide across the table toward me. "Business records."

I glance down. Invoices, delivery logs, merchant accounts. Nothing jumps out immediately. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

Brock points toward a series of entries. I follow the line of his finger,then another, and my attention sharpens. "Wait."

He says nothing. I look again, more carefully this time. The same names keep surfacing — not directly, but repeatedly, woven through different transactions, different complaints, different vendors. The pattern assembles itself slowly, and my stomach tightens with every piece that slots into place.

"No," I say.

Brock nods once. "I thought the same thing."