Page 62 of Bear and Order

"Yes," she says, and the single word settles into my chest — solid, certain, real. After weeks of disappearing files, withdrawn witnesses, dead ends, and three men in an office trying to take my badge, the finish line finally comes into view.

Arrests are now possible.

27

JUNIPER

Ialways thought knowing would make it easier.

For weeks, pieces kept falling into place — the complaints, the missing inventory, the forged warnings, the disappearing records. Every trail eventually circled the same name. Marissa. Part of me knew it long before Brock said the words out loud, saw it every time he brought another report, every time Theo uncovered another connection, every time Helena found another inconsistency. Yet hearing it spoken aloud feels entirely different from suspecting it in silence.

The bakery suddenly seems too quiet.

Brock stands across from me, his expression careful, measured — the same look he wears when delivering bad news and knows it. "We confirmed it." The words settle heavily, and I lower myself into a chair, not because I want to but because my legs have abruptly decided they're done participating. Brock stays silent, giving me room, giving me time. Unfortunately, neither helps the way he probably hopes.

My gaze drifts toward the front window, toward the empty street beyond it, toward memories I suddenly don't want.

"Juniper."

His voice is gentle. I laugh once — a humorless sound that doesn't belong in a bakery. "Of course it's her."

The answer surprises him. I can tell because he expected anger, shock, denial — maybe all three arriving at once. Instead I just feel tired, and tired doesn't even begin to cover it.

Brock pulls the chair beside me and sits, close enough to reach me, close enough that I know he won't leave. I appreciate that more than I can explain. "I thought I'd be surprised," I admit, and the confession slips out quietly, like something I've been holding back for longer than I realized. Brock says nothing. I continue. "I kept telling myself it couldn't be her. Then every new piece of evidence made that harder."

The silence stretches between us — not uncomfortable, just heavy.

I stare at the countertop, then smile, a sad and tired thing. "Do you know how long I've known her?"

"No," Brock says.

I look down at my hands. "Forever." The word hurts more than I expect it to. "She was there for everything." The memories come whether I want them or not — summer festivals, school projects, late-night conversations, birthday cakes, celebrations, failures. Every version of myself I can remember has Marissa somewhere in it, and that realization cuts deeper than anything else has today.

"I trusted her." The words crack slightly. I hate that — hate how much it still hurts, hate that it has any power left at all. "When everyone else left, she stayed." I swallow hard. "Or at least I thought she did."

The bakery goes quiet again, the kind of quiet that settles into bones. I rub at my eyes, not crying, close but not crying.

"Every time something went wrong, she was there." The realization arrives as I say it, slowly then all at once, and my stomach twists. Because suddenly those memories look different. Not fake, not entirely — just different. Brock studies me carefully.

"What are you thinking?"

I lean back in my chair and laugh softly, a bitter sound. "I'm thinking she knew exactly how to position herself." His attention sharpens and I keep going. "Whenever I wanted to expand, she told me to slow down." The memory surfaces vividly — Marissa sitting at one of these same tables, coffee in hand, smiling, sounding reasonable, sounding helpful. You don't need another location, June. You're happiest here.

At the time it sounded like support. Now I'm not so sure it was ever that simple.

Another memory follows. Insurance. Equipment coverage. Emergency backup programs. Things I dismissed because someone I trusted told me they weren't necessary, and I believed her because why wouldn't I. The realization makes me sick.

"I was an idiot," I mutter, and the words slip before I can stop them.

Brock frowns immediately. "No."

"Really?"

"No." The answer comes harder this time, more forceful. He holds my gaze and there's no room in his expression for argument. "You trusted someone. That's not stupidity." I want to argue — part of me desperately wants to, because blaming myself feels easier, cleaner, familiar. Brock doesn't let me. "You trusted a friend. You weren't wrong for that."

"If Marissa used the same methods everywhere, somebody close to her may be sitting on records without realizing their importance.” I exhale.

I stare elsewhere, because hearing it hurts and hearing it helps, and both things are true at the same time.