Page 94 of The Last Call Home
She doesn’t answer.Not right away.Her gaze falls to her cup as if she’s hoping the heat seeping through the cardboard will anchor her, reminding her she’s here.Not wherever her thoughts have run to.Her thumb rubs over the half-smeared initials stamped in faded black ink.
“The same reason everyone left.”The shrug she gives me is too casual.Like the words aren’t trying to splinter me.“Even you bailed.I was just done.What I can’t understand is why you came back.”
I gawk, stunned she has the audacity to flip this on me.
“You’ve been to France.New York.Why come back to this backwards-ass town with its bake-sale politics and maple-flavored judgment?”
“Mom needs me.”My voice catches.I don’t mean to get caught in the ache of it, but I do.“I don’t know what’s happening to her.She keeps talking about the past—about my father.But not in a sweet, nostalgic way.It’s ...weird.”
Simone’s brow creases.“Like she’s losing her mind, weird?”
I shrug, but the truth sits too close to the surface.I don’t say how I’ve started sleeping with the lights on.How I keep checking the locks twice, sometimes three times.
“Why haven’t you brought her to the clinic?”she asks gently.“I could run some tests.”
“We’ve seen doctors in Boston.They ran every test, and everything came back clear.Clean bill of health, but Mom’s convinced he’s still around.”I exhale.“She’s mad at me.Said I should believe her when she tells me she’s seen him.He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep or spying on us outside The Honey Drop.”
“Have you tried a psychic?”
I glare.
She holds up her hands in mock surrender, lips twitching.“Just offering alternatives.Some of them claim they can talk to the dead.”
“Cute joke,” I deadpan.“Like how you always detour the conversation when it starts to sting.”I narrow my eyes.“But you still haven’t told me why you left.And don’t say it was a coincidence because something tells me it has everything to do with Keir Timberbridge.”
The words land like a match.She’s thinking, probably trying to come up with some answer I’m not going to like, but I will press.Tonight, she’s telling me what happened.I’m not letting it go.
But before she can open her mouth?—
BOOM.
The sound shreds the silence.Everything tilts sideways.The floor hums beneath my feet.
“What the?—”
Through the window behind her, a burst of orange flares like the sun took a bite out of Main Street.
Then the screaming starts.
“The Honey Drop is on fire,” a male voice booms almost as loud as the explosion itself.
My heart stops.No.No, no, no?—
The cup slips from my hand and crashes into the grass, the lid popping off as lukewarm coffee spills across the ground.I don’t stop to watch it soak in.My legs are already moving.I tear across the green, shoving past a couple frozen in place.The air tastes like fire—acrid and wrong.Smoke climbs the sky in thick, gray ribbons, rising from the direction of Main Street like the whole damn town is exhaling grief.
It’s my shop.My bakery.My everything.
And it’s on fire.
“Mom,” I scream.“She was there—I left her there?—”
I don’t think.I just run.My legs pump like they’re chasing time.
Someone grabs me from behind.Arms around my waist, strong, immovable.
“Stop.”
Cassian’s voice slices through the chaos, raw and commanding.
