Alexander shook his head. “Or an iPad.”
“Wow,” she replied in faux amazement. “How did you survive?”
He tousled her hair. “Barely.”
“So… Pancakes, Daddy?” she asked again.
He looked at the time, then Olivia. He hated disappointing his daughter, but Mischa’s death lay heavy on his mind and he needed some answers. True, his brother-in-law was one of the best homicide detectives around, who wouldn’t stop until he found the killer, but Alexander couldn’t sit back and do nothing, particularly with his gut telling him Mischa wasn’t just another victim of the Castle Island Killer, as the evidence would lead everyone to believe.
“Melanie, sweetie,” Olivia began, noticing his apparent unease. “Daddy has to go into work today.” She opened her arms and Melanie ran into them.
“I promise we’ll make pancakes tomorrow,” he offered in consolation.
“And go ice skating?” she added excitedly.
“The lake hasn’t frozen over yet, munchkin. It’s not safe.”
She frowned.
“We’ll find something else to do. Maybe your mother will take you to the skating rink today, and we’ll go sledding tomorrow, if you’d like.”
She nodded vigorously, giving him a wide, toothy grin. Running from Olivia, she flung her arms around him. “Love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, little nugget.”
“I’m not little anymore.”
“You’ll always be little to me.”
Chapter Five
December 18
7:30 AM
DROPLETS FELL FROM THE sky as Rayne climbed the steps from the Park red line station onto the street. She didn’t know what possessed her to get off at this stop. It wasn’t close to where she lived or worked. Not anymore. But after running out on Mark, she was consumed with her past.
On autopilot, her legs carried her the few city blocks toward the storefront that had been a second home to her for the better part of a decade. The city was just coming to life, the illumination from the streetlamps replaced by the rising sun hidden behind an endless sky of clouds. The sidewalks were slick with a combination of rain and melted snow, a brown slush highlighting hundreds of footprints.
The smell of sugar and coffee made its way to her senses and she stopped, staring into the large window. A few familiar faces stocked the display cases with freshly made doughnuts, cakes, cookies, and other specialties of the house. She wondered if they still used her recipes, even after she had been ousted from her own bakery. These four walls had been her dream since she could remember, although her parents never supported it. They had a plan for her, too — Brown, law school, then become a partner at her father’s law firm.
When she dropped out after her first semester to follow her dream of becoming a pastry chef, her parents were horrified. Refusing to let anyone stand in her way, she moved out with barely a penny to her name. Her hunger to succeed, to prove her parents wrong, was the driving force she needed to be the best. She studied under the most notable pastry chefs in the world, honing and perfecting her skills over the years. She worked long hours and holidays, trying to save enough money to see her dream come true. Finally, after years and years, she had her very own pastry shop in the financial district of Boston, the perfect location to cater to tourists and the young professional crowd alike.
One day, she was on top of the world, thinking she finally had everything she’d ever wanted.
The next, she’d lost it all.
She could still remember what she was doing when she received the phone call that changed everything.
“Is the cake ready for the Vandekamp retirement party?” Rayne’s bubbly blonde employee, Lillian, asked, bursting through the swinging doors to the kitchen of the bakery. Rayne liked to think it was where the magic happened. Ever since her nanny taught her how to whip up a cake or her famous bread pudding, she knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to be a pastry chef. From sunrise to sunset, she was covered in confectioner’s sugar, flour, chocolate, and whatever other ingredients were necessary for her sweet concoction of the day. It made her feel alive. Every morning, she smiled happily at all the suits heading to their jobs, a scowl on their faces. She truly felt blessed to have a career she enjoyed.
“Just putting the finishing touches on it right now,” Rayne said in an even tone, mirroring the steady hand with which she piped frosting onto the cake. She stepped back, admiring her handiwork. It was a masterpiece.
Once she’d learned Mr. Vandekamp planned to move to South Carolina where he would spend most of his days hitting balls on the golf course he would soon live on, Rayne’s creative juices had begun to flow. Soon, she had constructed a cake to replicate a golf bag, complete with cookie clubs.
When she first opened the bakery, she stuck to what she was comfortable with — cannolis, cupcakes, tarts, eclairs, and the like. But as the bakery’s reputation grew, she stepped out of her comfort zone, designing and constructing spectacular cakes from practically nothing. The joy on her clients’ faces when they came to pick up their orders was priceless.
“They’re going to love it,” Lillian said, admiring her work.
Looking at her, Rayne smiled. “I think so, too. Help me box it up.”
“You got it.”
“Rayne?” a voice bellowed over the commotion of clanging metal and people shouting orders.
“Yes?” she answered, not looking up, keeping her attention entirely devoted to securely boxing up the cake so it arrived at its destination undamaged.
“You’ve got a phone call.”
“Take a message, Alberto,” she instructed, glancing at a short, dark-skinned man.
“I tried. He said it’s urgent.”
“Who?”
He looked down at a napkin he held. There was probably something scrawled illegibly to everyone except Alberto on it. “Alexander Burnham,” he responded in a thick Spanish accent. “He said he’s your fiancé’s boss.”
Rayne inhaled a quick breath, her stomach rolling. She stared at Alberto, unsettled thoughts circling through her head, then snapped out of her daze.
“Alberto, can you help Lillian finish boxing up this cake and get it into the client’s car?”
“You got it, el jefe.”