Chapter 5 - THE ROOM ABOVE THE BAKERY
The first thing Harper said when she saw me at the little Iowa train station was, "You're thinner than your last Christmas photograph, and I'm going to be unbearable about feeding you."
Then she hugged me so carefully that I started crying into her coat.
Harper had always been the kind of woman who could make a stranger feel like an old friend. In college, she had worked three jobs and still found time to leave soup outside my dorm room during finals. Now she owned a bakery called First Light in a town where people waved from parked cars and nobody appeared to know or care who Dominic Bellano was.
Her apartment above the bakery had two bedrooms, crooked wooden floors, and windows overlooking a square where children rode bicycles around a stone fountain. She'd put flowers on the dresser in the guest room and bought crackers, ginger ale, and enough plain bread to feed a small village.
"You didn't have to do all this," I told her.
"I know. That's the fun part."
For the first time in nine weeks, I slept through the night.
The following morning I sat at a kitchen table with a mug of peppermint tea and watched Harper mix dough downstairs through the glass panel at the top of the stairs. Her employees moved around her with the confidence of people who knew they were trusted. Nobody flinched when their boss entered a room. I had forgotten how much that mattered.
My phone held one message from Dominic. I hope you arrived safely. No need to answer. There is no update from the investigation yet.
I wrote back: I did. Please don't ask where I am.
His reply came an hour later. I won't.
I believed he meant it. I also knew that his promises were only meaningful while they cost him something.
Three days passed peacefully. I helped Harper put labels on pastry boxes when the nausea allowed it. At night we played cards and talked about the ridiculous names people had given their childhood pets. She never asked for the details of the night at the Lakeshore Grand. When I wanted to speak about Dominic, she listened. When I didn't, she showed me pictures of puppies available for adoption at the local shelter.
I began imagining staying in Iowa. There were bookkeeping firms in neighboring towns. I had a degree, a good record, and enough savings for several months if I budgeted carefully. I could take on contract work after the baby arrived. Harper offered the room for as long as I wanted, but I insisted we'd write a rental agreement once I found permanent employment. Friendship deserved clarity, not silent obligations.
Then, on Thursday afternoon, the bakery's landline rang.
Harper answered while rolling a tray toward the oven. Her expression changed. She glanced up at me and covered the receiver.
"Someone says she's from a Chicago credit company. She's asking for you."
My stomach went cold. "Tell her you can't confirm I'm here."
Harper did so. The caller asked whether she could leave a message. Harper wrote down a number, then ended the call.
I sent the details to Imani and Detective Morales. The number traced to a customer-service line for a debt collection agency, although I had no unpaid accounts besides a small credit-card balance I was paying regularly. An hour later, I received an email claiming I had improperly removed proprietary information from Bellano Tower and demanding that I return it immediately or face civil action.
The sender was a law firm I'd never heard of. The letter contained no specific documents and no authorized company representative's name. I forwarded it without responding.
"Does your boss know about this?" Harper asked.
"He will through my lawyer, if it's something he needs to know."
"Good. Because I don't want you begging a dangerous man to fix a problem another dangerous man made."
She said it without judgment. I nearly hugged her again.
That evening, Imani called. The threatening letter was not from Bellano's established legal counsel. Someone had attempted to use the company's name to pressure me. She planned to notify the firm's lawyers and preserve evidence of the impersonation.
"You have a right to keep living," she reminded me. "Threatening correspondence does not require you to abandon every ordinary activity."
I looked at the flour on my sleeves. It was the first truly ordinary thing I'd worn in days.
On Friday, while Harper delivered sandwiches to the community center, I went to the town library to print an apartment application. The librarian, an elderly woman named Joan, helped me fix a jammed printer. We chatted about the weather. Nobody asked whom I was carrying a baby for. Nobody watched the door. I was so relieved by the lack of drama that I laughed walking home.
Halfway across the square, I saw a black sedan parked near the fountain.
There was nothing unusual about a black sedan. I reminded myself of that as I continued walking. Then a man stepped out, wearing a gray coat and holding a paper bag. He watched me for a moment before crossing toward the bakery.
I walked into a busy pharmacy and called the local police. I explained the threats and where I was. The dispatcher asked me to remain inside while an officer checked the situation. Ten minutes later, a patrol officer found the driver. He was a sales representative delivering samples to the bakery and had an appointment with Harper.
I apologized to the officer.
"No need," she said. "You had a reason to be careful. Better to ask than to guess."
Back in the apartment, I felt foolish until I remembered that someone really had stolen my medical image. Trauma made the world feel crowded with danger, but acknowledging that didn't make the danger imaginary. I could be vigilant without surrendering the ability to recognize innocence.
That night Harper and I sat with soup at the kitchen table. I told her what I'd done at the pharmacy.
"A criminal sent you photographs of your pregnancy," she said. "You do not owe every black car the benefit of the doubt."
"I don't want to become somebody who can't leave the house."
"Then tomorrow we're going to the farmers' market. We can be scared and buy apples at the same time."
I loved her fiercely for that.
On Saturday morning, Dominic called at the time I'd authorized for personal contact. I answered on the porch, bundled into Harper's oversized sweater.
"I won't ask where you are," he said immediately.
"You sound rehearsed."
"I practiced."
Despite everything, I smiled. "How is the investigation?"
"Julian has retained an attorney. He denies any involvement in the threats. My board is split. My aunt claims the Meridian acquisition was developed without her knowledge, but she refuses to produce the trust's records."
"Did you tell the investigators about your own signature?"
"Yesterday. I also disclosed the internal review we commissioned after the fire. It was inadequate. I should have insisted on an independent inquiry."
"What happened after you disclosed it?"
"My attorneys became very unhappy."
"I'm asking what happened to the company."
"The lender suspended the acquisition deadline pending a fraud review. We're pursuing an injunction to preserve the disputed records. The legal side has started to move independently of me."
I considered that. "Good."
There was a long silence before he said, "I keep thinking about the room above your desk. The one with the old conference calendars. You used to correct my meeting schedule in red because you said I needed to learn to read my own handwriting."
"You did."
"I miss that. I miss you telling me when I'm being an idiot."
I leaned against the porch rail. "I'm still available for that service. Just not on salary."
He laughed softly. Then his voice changed. "I know I've done things you may never forgive. I don't want our child to grow up hearing a cleaned-up version of who I was."
"Then give them a better version to watch," I said.
When we ended the call, I felt neither rescued nor trapped. I felt something harder to describe: that I could love him and still refuse to hand him my life.
At closing time Harper came upstairs carrying two cinnamon rolls and a letter addressed to me. There was no return address, but the postmark was Chicago, and the envelope had been forwarded from my apartment after I had arranged mail forwarding through the postal service.
Inside was a bank statement showing six transfers between a Bellano family trust and Harbor Meridian. Each transfer had occurred shortly before an inspection delay or board decision about North Harbor Logistics.
Someone had circled the transactions in blue ink.
At the bottom, in handwriting I recognized from internal holiday cards, were five words: BEATRICE DID NOT ACT ALONE.
Then came a name I knew well.
MILES TRENT.
Miles was Dominic's longtime security director, the man who had once assured me that Bellano Tower was safer than any bank vault. He had access to schedules, vehicles, visitor logs, and the places employees were supposed to feel protected.
I stared at the statement. If Miles was involved, he could have known about the clinic even without seeing my medical files. He could have followed me. He could have photographed me. And he could know that I was in Iowa.
I didn't pack my bags and run. I sent the letter to Morales, told Harper what it contained, and put a chair in front of the window because I wanted one small act that belonged to me.
Then I called Lena.
"I need to ask you something," I said. "And I need you to answer as my friend, not as Dominic's employee."
"Ask."
"Can Miles Trent be trusted?"
For a long time she didn't answer.
When she did, her voice was very quiet.
May you like
"I was about to call you. We found out he's been selling employee travel information to a private intelligence company. He's disappeared."
The safe town around me hadn't changed. But danger, I was learning, did not always announce itself with a black sedan. Sometimes it traveled through ordinary files, forwarded letters, and people who were paid to keep you safe.
