Page 72 of Wildflower and Whiskey
Two days after the Thanksgiving Market, the air over Val-Du-Lys had that dense cold feeling. It screamed we wouldn’t be having anymore warm fall days. The pumpkins Elyna and I bought sat on the porch rail, one tiny and lopsided for Braden, the other big enough for the three of us to carve together when things calmed down. If they ever did.
Elyna said she’d come down to my house once Braden woke up from his nap. I had taken leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner and warmed them up for lunch. My house smelled like roasted turkey and sage. Dominic and Angela joined me again to help finish off the leftovers, though I was pretty sure we’d be eating turkey sandwiches until Christmas. The kitchen buzzed with warmth and laughter, and for a while, it almost felt normal.
Almost.
But that comfort didn’t last. Not after what happened at the market with Colette showing up out of nowhere and scooping Braden into her arms like she had a claim. Elyna hadn’t sleptright since. Every creak on the porch pulled her to the window. Every passing truck made her stiffen.
We were sitting at my long kitchen table together. I was picking at a plate of reheated stuffing and pie, when Becket came in through the mudroom door. One look at him told me lunch was about to turn sour.
He wasn’t in uniform, just jeans and a gray Henley, but his face was all business. He carried a folder under his arm. Dad followed behind with a coffee in hand. His expression was just as grim.
Angela noticed first. “Oh no,” she sighed, setting down the container she was filling. “That’s not the face of a man stopping in for some leftovers.”
Dominic gave a knowing look. “You two can’t even give us one holiday off?”
Dad’s voice was quiet but firm. “Wish I could.”
Angela muttered something about “Thorne men and their timing,” kissed Dominic on the cheek, and pulled him toward the back porch. “Come on, let them talk shop before my blood pressure spikes.”
When the door shut behind them, the house fell into that heavy stillness that only came before bad news. Becket dropped the folder on the table.
“We’ve been tracing the messages Elyna got, the ones pretending to be from Riley.”
My stomach clenched. “And?”
“They were bounced through burners,” he said, flipping open the file. “Three different numbers. Whoever’s sending them knows how to cover their trail. But we confirmed something else.” He tapped a printout of bank records. “The transfer Elyna mentioned? Riley withdrew that cash. But that’s the last we’ve seen of him. No more activity. No phone pings. Nothing.”
“Meaning he’s missing?” I asked.
Dad’s tone was hard. “Or worse.”
Becket nodded. “Either way, it’s not him sending the messages anymore. Someone else has his phone and they’re using it.”
The air in the room shifted.
Dad took a slow sip of coffee. “Montreal PD’s been cooperative. They confirmed Riley’s been tangled up with a small-time loan shark, Louis Marchand out of Verdun. He has guys who collect money in a fast and mean way.”
My grip tightened on the edge of the table. “How bad?”
“The kind of debt you don’t walk away from,” Becket said. “He was buying time. Elyna’s money helped but when it ran out, he made things worse.”
Dad met my eyes, his voice flat. “He told Marchand about Val-Du-Lys.”
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. “What?”
Becket leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Riley fed him stories. Said the town was full of money, big properties, easy targets, families who don’t lock their doors. He thought if Marchand came here, he’d find cash fast and leave him alone.”
“He sold out his own kid’s hometown,” I said, disbelief turning to anger.
“Yeah,” Becket muttered. “And now Marchand is here with his little gang.”
Dad’s jaw set. “They’ve been spotted around town bars, poker games, asking questions about the Thornes and the brewery. And they’re not the only problem.”
“Meaning?”
Dad’s eyes flicked to Becket, then back to me. “Marcel Bellerose.”
That name hit like a hammer. “He’s still running things?”
