CHAPTER 14
Chapter Title: Grocery Bag
Kathy
The shower’s steam enveloped the small bathroom, transforming the mirror into a clouded veil that softened my reflection into something delicate, almost otherworldly, as if I were a specter caught in a fleeting moment of vulnerability. I dragged the edge of my towel across the glass, clearing the fog in slow, deliberate swipes, and stared at the face that emerged—my own, yet somehow unfamiliar. Tired green eyes, shadowed with the weight of sleepless nights, met my gaze. My pink lips, pressed into a line too severe for someone standing in the quiet of an early afternoon, revealed a tension I couldn’t shake. My skin, pale despite the coastal sun, bore faint lines at the corners of my eyes—marks of too many late nights poring over case files, chasing answers that always seemed one step out of reach.
Kimberly had always insisted I was the prettiest and smartest, her voice carrying that unshakable confidence she wielded like a charm. I’d never put stock in the “prettiest” claim—my features, though pleasant enough, felt too sharp, too lived-in to compete with her polished allure. My nose was slightly crooked from a childhood fall, and my jawline, though strong, lacked the soft symmetry Kimberly seemed to embody effortlessly. But the smartest? That I could entertain. I had clawed my way into Columbia University on a full scholarship, a feat that still felt like a small miracle. I graduated at the top of my class with a degree in Criminal Justice, my name etched on the dean’s list as proof. The FBI had come calling before the ink on my diploma dried, recruiting me with a speed that left me dizzy, as if my life had been fast-tracked into a world of high stakes and shadowy motives. My career had been a whirlwind of interrogations, undercover ops, and the kind of cases that left you questioning whether justice was ever truly served.
Kimberly, though, was no less brilliant in her own right. She’d earned her marketing degree with a kind of effortless grace, landing a coveted position at a top-tier PR firm in the city the moment she tossed her cap into the air at graduation. Her life had been a montage of sleek boardrooms, power lunches, and the kind of social circle that glittered under Manhattan’s skyline. Yet, somehow, she’d traded it all for a quaint bakery in this sleepy coastal town—a place where the pace was slow, and the air carried the weight of salt and secrets. The leap from PR executive to small-town pastry chef was a puzzle I couldn’t solve, a piece of her life that felt like it belonged to someone else’s story. What had pulled her here? What had she been chasing—or running from? The questions gnawed at me, a loose thread I couldn’t stop tugging.
Kimberly had always been the one to claim the “prettiest” crown, and now, she wore it with an almost unearthly perfection. The plastic surgery—subtle but undeniable—had sculpted her into a vision of flawlessness, each feature honed to an idealized symmetry. Her cheekbones were higher, her nose more refined, her lips fuller in a way that seemed to defy nature’s hand. It must have cost a small fortune, the kind of money most people could only dream of. But our father’s inheritance, a windfall she’d received after his sudden passing three years ago, had made such extravagance possible. I’d gotten my share too—a modest sum I’d tucked away for a rainy day—but Kimberly had spent hers with a kind of reckless abandon, as if reshaping her face could reshape her life.
Maybe it had. Maybe that’s what had drawn Hank, Crisfield's most eligible bachelor, to her, or maybe it was something deeper, something I hadn’t yet uncovered.
I dressed with purpose, slipping into a pair of well-worn jeans that hugged my frame and a crisp white button-down shirt, its sleeves rolled to my elbows. My dark hair, still damp from the shower, I twisted into a loose, slightly messy knot at the nape of my neck, a style that felt both practical and defiant of the coastal heat. I tugged on my white sneakers, scuffed but sturdy, grounding me as I prepared to face the day. The routine was familiar, a ritual that steadied me, like slipping into armor before stepping into the unknown.
When I swung the front door open, a blast of hot, humid air rushed at me, carrying the faint tang of salt from the nearby ocean. The porch creaked under my weight, the wood weathered by years of salty air and neglect. But it wasn’t the heat that stopped me in my tracks. There, on the porch mat, sat a brown paper grocery bag, its edges neatly folded, as if placed with care. It was unremarkable at first glance, the kind of bag you’d see clutched in the hands of a harried shopper, but its presence felt staged, deliberate, like a prop left on a set.
No sound broke the morning’s stillness—no crunch of retreating footsteps on the gravel path, no hum of a delivery truck fading into the distance, no sign of life at all. Just the bag, unassuming yet heavy with intent, and a folded note taped to its front. The silence was oppressive, the kind that made you hyper-aware of your own breathing, your own pulse.
I crouched down, my fingers brushing the coarse paper as I read the note’s printed message: “Make yourself feel at home.” The words were simple, but their tone sent a shiver down my spine—too familiar, too deliberate, like a voice whispering just out of sight. I flipped the note over and spotted a logo stamped in crisp black ink: The Lace & Timber Market, a boutique grocer on the east end of town. I had passed it earlier—a pretentious little shop known for its overpriced strawberries, artisan mustards, and a clientele that seemed to revel in its exclusivity. It was the kind of store Kimberly would have loved, with its curated charm and air of self-important sophistication.
Was this a gesture of welcome, a small-town nicety extended to a newcomer? Or was it something darker—a veiled warning to tread carefully in a place where secrets seemed to linger like the morning fog? My training kicked in, the part of me that had spent years dissecting motives and reading between lines. I scanned the street, my eyes darting from the empty sidewalk to the quiet houses lined with picket fences. Nothing stirred. No curtains twitched, no shadows moved. Just the oppressive weight of an empty street under a too-bright sun.
I carried the bag inside, setting it on the kitchen counter with a caution born of years in the field. I unfolded its top, peering inside with the same care I’d use to approach a suspicious package. Eggs, their shells a perfect ivory. A loaf of crusty bread, still faintly warm, its scent rising like a memory of Kimberly’s kitchen. A stick of butter, a jar of raspberry jam, a bundle of sage tied with twine, and a bottle of Pinot Noir, its label gleaming with understated elegance. Every item was something Kimberly loved, a collection so tailored to her tastes that it felt like a message written in her own hand.
This was no random delivery. It was too personal, too meticulously curated to be anything but deliberate. Someone knew me—or knew Kimberly—and wanted me to feel it. To stay, perhaps. To settle into this town like it was home. Or maybe to stop asking the questions that had brought me here in the first place—questions about why Kimberly had left her glittering city life, why she’d chosen this town, and why she’d stopped sharing details about her life with me.
I placed the wine in the fridge, its door clicking shut with a soft finality. The sage I set on the windowsill, its earthy scent mingling with the salt air drifting through the screen. The act felt like a ritual, a way to anchor myself in a moment that threatened to slip into unease.
“I don’t take hints well,” I murmured to the empty room, my voice low but resolute. The words were a challenge, thrown into the void of the tiny home, as if whoever had left the bag might hear me.
My stomach growled, a sharp reminder that I needed more than toast and jam to fuel the day ahead. I headed for The Shack, the local crab joint that seemed to be the town’s beating heart. Perched precariously along the boardwalk, it was a weathered relic of a building, its paint chipped by years of salt and wind. Inside, it was alive with the hum of conversation, the clatter of plates, and the unmistakable aroma of vinegar, garlic butter, and Old Bay seasoning, a scent that clung to the air like a memory.
The hostess, a young woman with a sharp bob and a practiced smile, gave me a quick once-over. Her eyes lingered a fraction too long, as if trying to place me. “Solo?” she asked, her tone neutral but curious.
“Looks like it,” I replied, matching her smile with one of my own, though mine felt tighter, more guarded.
“Got a spot by the windows—just wiped down. Follow me.”
She led me to a booth overlooking the water, where the ocean stretched out in a lazy shimmer, dotted with boats that rocked gently in the tide. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and brazen, as if they owned the coast and everything on it. I slid into the booth, the vinyl creaking under my weight, and opened the menu, its pages slightly sticky from the humid air.
I’d barely begun to scan the offerings—crab cakes, shrimp po’boys, hush puppies—when a voice broke through the din, low and teasing, like a melody I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting to hear.
“Well, well. Look who’s still in town.”
I turned, and there he was. Ace Ryder.