“Stop it,” Nora hissed at herself. This was ridiculous. She was a Sanford, after all. Stiff upper lip and pull yourself up by your bootstraps and never let them see you cry. Her childhood had been all those clichés and more rolled into one. Hadn’t she learned a single thing in the years under her father’s roof? Nora tightened the knot of her apron and put her hands on her hips. Of course she could do this.
Reassuring herself that the croissants were browning nicely, Nora slipped her phone out of her purse and keyed in the passcode. Quinn had texted her—again—and after verifying that it wasn’t an emergency, Nora deleted it without responding. She chose to believe that Everlee was safe with Quinn—and right now, that was all that mattered.
But there was another text, another number, and this one made Nora’s skin prickle.
Bye, Nora.
Nora felt the blood drain from her face. For just a moment her vision blurred and she had to grip the side of the prep table to stop herself from falling as the floor seemed to tilt. Tiffany wouldn’t. Would she? No. As quickly as the thought crossed Nora’s mind, she dismissed it. Tiffany wasn’t the sort to take her own life.
But she was the sort to get going when the going got tough.
Nora decided she wasn’t sad. She was mad. Hissing, spitting, throwing things mad. This was not what they had planned. It wasn’t supposed to shake down like this.
The scent of warm pastry wafted through the kitchen. Surprise took the edge off her rage, and Nora dropped her phone on the table so she could lunge for the oven. The flaky croissants burned easily, but she had caught them just in time. She was grateful that Ethan wasn’t around to witness the tremor in her hands as she slid the baking tray onto a cooling rack.
Ethan poked his head in the back room as Nora was trying to plot her next move. If Tiffany was gone . . . ? Nora was plagued with doubt, queasy with worry, and she could see concern instantly register in Ethan’s kind face.
“Seriously,” he said, pushing into the back room. “You’re pale as a sheet, Nora. Go home.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. She shoved her phone into her purse and began transferring the croissants to a narrow serving tray. “Thanks anyway.”
“I can handle the shop today.”
“Midmorning rush is about to begin.”
“Nah, the summer crowd is always a little thin and—”
Nora forced a laugh, but it was brittle and joyless. “I’m fine.”
Ethan sighed, giving up. “Whatever. There’s someone here to see you.”
“What?” Nora’s hand froze in midair, fingers still tight around the spatula. Maybe . . . ? She tossed the utensil on the counter and edged past Ethan, not even bothering to be polite as she did so. Pushing through the swinging door, she steeled herself for a quiet confrontation. “We can do this,” she would say. “Stick to the plan. Be strong.”
But Nora never had the chance to whisper ultimatums.
He was picking through the muffins, turning them over in his hands one by one before discarding them. But when she appeared, he dropped the last one on the counter and with a smirk watched her come. Nora knew that many would consider him attractive, with his dark hair and brooding gaze, the hint of a tattoo peeking out of the collar of his shirt, but he was repulsive to her. Terrifying.
“For God’s sake, Nora. What did you do to your hair?”
If she faltered, it was only for a second. A flicker of panic in her eyes, a rigidity in her jaw that betrayed just how deeply she loathed him. But she sped right through the shock, her course not wavering as she went to the counter and stood opposite the man she loathed with a hatred so powerful it seemed to be a living, breathing thing. Nora wanted to throw herself across the counter and take him by the throat. Instead, she smiled. Dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and pulled herself together.
“I combed it,” Nora said. He liked her sharp and sassy, the bitchy, girl-power best friend of his lover. It was a role Nora had learned to play—not because she felt the need to acquiesce to him, because it was the easiest way to control him. Or, at least, his opinion of her. “What are you doing here, Donovan?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Nor? I came to see you.” He leaned on the counter, giving her a wolfish smile that was supposed to be sensual, coy. Donovan had done more than flirt with her over the years. An errant hand, a wayward touch, a look that spoke volumes. And Nora had never, not once, been tempted.
Nervous and needing to do something with her hands, Nora grabbed the bag of dark roast beans and poured a small amount into the grinder. “Mocha?”
“You remembered.”
“How could I forget?”
Donovan watched her as she went through the motions, tamping down the grounds and then steaming milk while the espresso filled the creamer. She wished there was a way she could slip something into his drink, but when she presented it to him in a to-go cup it was perfection, rich and chocolaty with a swirl of melting whipped cream on top. It smelled like cozy nights and long talks and comfort. He didn’t deserve it, but she was desperate for him to leave.
“It’s on the house,” Nora said.
Donovan raised his cup to her and then set it back down on the counter untouched. “I think you know why I’m here.”
“Coffee?”
He gave her a look that froze her heart. It stuttered painfully, and she forced herself to say, “She’s not here.”
“Clearly. The question is, where is she?”
“Tiffany’s mother died,” Nora said, sticking to the script they had cobbled together. It was makeshift and full of holes, but it was better than nothing.
“She doesn’t have a mother.”
Nora swallowed. “I mean, her aunt.”
“That’s the thing.” Donovan reached out and put his hand over Nora’s where it rested on the counter. His palm was hot, clammy, and it swallowed her hand whole. “Tiff wasn’t going to the funeral. We talked about it. A lot. She didn’t want to go.”
“I never said she was in Key Lake. You didn’t let me finish.” Nora’s skin flamed where Donovan touched her and she longed to yank her hand away. But she didn’t dare. She straightened her chin and tried to glare at him.
“Where are my girls, Nora?”
“They’re in New Ulm. Visiting family.” A lie. Tiffany had no family. Besides Everlee.
“Why won’t she answer my calls?”
“Oh?” Nora finally tugged her hand away, busying herself with the glass gallon of whole milk that she had left on the counter. It took her three tries to twist the lid on properly. “I don’t know. Last I checked I wasn’t Tiffany’s keeper. You were.”
A vein in Donovan’s neck flushed crimson as he leaned toward her. “That’s right. She chose me, Nora. She chose me over you. But I’ve been patient, I’ve let you stick around and leech off our family even though all you’ve done is try to poison the well.”
When his fist hit the counter it made Nora jump. Her eyes shot to his and she was shocked to see bald-faced hatred burning there. Donovan wasn’t hiding it; he wasn’t pretending. Not anymore. “What did you do with it?” he whispered, each word landing like a blow.