Page 56 of Bear and Order

"The town council reviewed the permit restrictions," she says, and her voice sounds distant, wrong, like something hollowed out.

I already know what comes next. The realization settles over me slowly — the bakery, the accusations, the missing customers, the collapsing reputation. Everything has finally reached its breaking point. And as I look at the woman standing behind that counter, one truth becomes impossible to ignore.

Whoever started this war is winning. At least for now.

25

JUNIPER

The bakery is empty again, and I sit behind the counter staring at paperwork I have no intention of reading. The closure notice rests beside the register. The stack of canceled orders sits beneath it. Neither improves my mood.

I don't feel angry. I don't feel determined. I don't even feel frustrated. I just feel tired — the kind that settles deep inside a person and doesn't disappear after sleep.

The front door remains closed. No customers enter, no orders arrive, no phone calls interrupt the silence. Sweetbell Bakery feels like a shell of itself, and somewhere between staring at the closure notice and the empty display case, I find myself wondering if fighting is worth it anymore. Maybe that's the real danger — not the fraud, not the sabotage, not the accusations. The temptation to stop.

I lower my head into my hands. Maybe everyone would be better off if I simply walked away. A few weeks ago, the thought would have made me furious. Now it just makes me sad.

The alarm above the door sounds. I don't look up immediately because I already know who it is.

Brock.

His footsteps cross the bakery and stop beside me.. Eventually he pulls out a chair and sits — quietly, patiently — the way he always does when he knows I'm struggling.

"You look terrible," he says.

A laugh escapes me, weak but real. "Good morning to you too."

He studies me, and the concern in his eyes makes something ache inside my chest. "Have you slept?"

"Some."

"That's not an answer."

I gesture, the movement feeling heavier than it should. Brock is quiet for a moment, then asks, "Are you thinking about quitting?" The question lands directly on the truth. I don't answer, because I don't need to — my silence does it for me.

He exhales slowly. "I thought so."

I watch the counter, at the empty display case, at everything I have spent years building. "I'm tired," I say. The words come out softer than intended.

"I know."

"I keep fighting and nothing changes." My throat tightens around the words. "The accusations keep coming, the customers keep leaving, and the bakery keeps sinking." The confession settles between us like something physical. Brock lets it sit there for a moment, then leans forward.

"Look at me."

I do, because somehow I always do. His expression is steady, certain, unshakable — the exact opposite of everything I feel right now.

"We're close," he says.

I let out a laugh, and there's no warmth in it. "We've been close forever."

"No." The word arrives immediately, quietly firm. "Not like this." He holds my gaze and continues. "We have evidence, witness statements, financial records, a pattern — and somebody is panicking." That gets my attention, only slightly, but Brock notices, and he presses forward. "People don't destroy records unless they're afraid. They don't shut down warehouses unless they're afraid. They don't pressure witnesses unless they're afraid."

Something stirs inside me — tiny, fragile, the kind of hope I hate needing this much.

Brock reaches across the table and his hand covers mine, warm and steady. "I'm not letting you quit."

The certainty catches me off guard, and a smile almost surfaces. Almost. "You don't get to decide that."