Sign the papers, sweetheart, or watch your little bakery burn to the ground by

I set my purse on the marble, slow and deliberate. Damien laughed. “Oh, honey. You think a piece of paper scares me? I own three judges in this county.” I slid the envelope across the island. “Then you’ll love this one.” He opened it, still smirking. The smirk died first. Then the color in his face. Inside was a forensic accounting report — six months of work by the firm Daniel had hired before he died. Daniel knew. He knew his brother had been siphoning money from the mill’s pension fund for nine years. Three point four million dollars. Pensions belonging to forty-two employees, including the woman who used to braid Damien’s hair when he was six. “Daniel left me a letter too,” I said quietly. “He suspected the cancer wasn’t random. He’d been under stress he never told me about — stress *you* created when he found the first discrepancy.” Damien’s hand started shaking. “The FBI has a copy. So does the Department of Labor. And so does every single employee you stole from.” Right on cue, headlights swept across the windows. Not police — worse. It was Margaret, the mill’s head baker for thirty-one years, and behind her car, twelve more. Forty-two employees. They’d been waiting at the gate for my text. Damien stumbled backward. “Elena, please — we’re family —” “Daniel was your family,” I said. “You buried him with a fake smile and started circling his widow before the casseroles went cold.” I picked up my purse. “The mill isn’t for sale. It’s becoming an employee-owned cooperative on Monday. I signed the papers this morning.” I walked to the door, then turned. “Oh — and Damien? Your wife called me yesterday. She’s keeping the kids. Turns out forensic accountants find *everything*.” I drove home smelling like flour and freedom, Daniel’s wedding ring warm against my collarbone.