Mara - POV
Odin. Dva. Tri.
The flour tips into the bowl and I count in Russian because English doesn't work at three in the morning. My grandmother's language. The one my mother spoke when she wanted to keep secrets from us kids.
I level off the measuring cup. Check the scale. Thirty grams over.
Dump it back. Start again.
If I get this right, maybe today stays normal. Maybe I don't check the door locks four times instead of three. Maybe I don't see Dominic's face in every man who walks past the bakery window.
Lily sits at the counter in her rainbow pajamas, the ones with the unicorn that's starting to peel from too many washes. Her stuffed rabbit is tucked under one arm. The other hand moves a blue crayon across paper in her notebook, the one I bought her for drawing flowers or horses or whatever six year olds are supposed to draw.
She doesn't draw flowers.
"Mama, why are we always awake when everyone else is sleeping?"
I crack an egg against the bowl rim. The shell breaks clean. "This is when the magic happens. The best bakers work in the dark. It's our secret."
"I don't like secrets."
Yeah. Me neither.
The mixer drowns out whatever I might say next, which is fine because I don't know what to say. I add honey, warmed so it pours instead of clumps. My grandmother taught me this in her kitchen in Boston. Sunlight through lace curtains. Her hands over mine, showing me how to fold instead of stir, how honey cake can't be forced.
She died three years ago. Never knew I changed my name. Never met Lily.
Some things you can't come back from.
I slide the pans into the oven and set the timer. Thirty five minutes of not looking, not checking, trusting the heat to do what it's supposed to do.
Trust. Right.
"Want hot chocolate?"
Lily nods without looking up. I can see her drawing from here. A window. Three locks on it, carefully detailed. And in the corner, barely sketched, a tall shadow.
The Tall Man.
She's been drawing him for eight months. Standing in doorways. Watching from corners. I asked her about it once and she said he visits sometimes when I'm sleeping. Just stands there.
My old therapist said it was normal. Children absorb their mother's anxiety, turn it into something they can see. Give it a shape.
I stopped going to therapy after that.
I make the hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and cinnamon the way Lily likes. She wraps both hands around the mug, blows on it. Steam rises between us.
"Mama?"
"Mmm?"
"Today is a sad day."
My hand freezes reaching for my own coffee. "What makes you say that?"
"You hum on sad days. That song with no words."
I wasn't humming. Was I? I stop, just in case. "It's just Tuesday, baby."
She looks at me with those eyes that see too much, then goes back to her hot chocolate. "Okay."
The trash bag by the back door is full. Overflowing, actually, because I didn't take it out last night like I meant to. The alley behind Second Rise isn't dangerous, exactly. Just dark. And there's sometimes a guy who sleeps by the dumpster in a pile of cardboard and blankets.
I usually wait for daylight.
But the smell is getting bad and I have customers in four hours.
The November air bites through my cardigan the second I step outside. I should have grabbed a coat. The dumpster lid shrieks when I lift it, metal on metal. I'm turning back to the door when I see something on the step.
Mail.
That's wrong. Mail doesn't come at four in the morning. Mail doesn't come to the back door.
But there it is. Small stack, rubber band around it.
I pick it up. Bills. Grocery store flyer. Lily's dentist reminder. And underneath, a postcard.
The image on front is Ashford Harbor at sunset. Water like hammered gold. The pier stretching out, the one where,
My hands are shaking.
I flip it over.
The handwriting. God. The handwriting.
Looping letters, tilted right. The way Kira signed birthday cards and left notes in my locker that said "You're stronger than you know" and "He doesn't deserve you."
I never left. Come find me. Room 77. K.
The postcard slips. I catch it before it hits the ground, even though every part of me wants to let it fall, to pretend I never saw it, to go back inside and keep baking and keep Lily safe and keep this small stupid life I built from nothing.
Kira Novak drowned seven years ago today.
Her body was pulled from Ashford Harbor on November second. I know because Dominic told me. Because I was there, supposedly. Standing on the pier while she went under and I did nothing.
I don't remember it.
I don't remember that whole night. Just gaps. Empty spaces where memory should be.
But this handwriting. I'd know it anywhere.
Inside, I lock the door. Check it twice. My hands won't stop shaking.
"What's wrong?"
Lily's watching me.
"Nothing. Just cold."
I shove the postcard in my apron pocket and go to check the cakes. Smoke curls from the oven door. I yank it open and three pans of blackened cake stare back at me.
The timer says seven minutes left.
I haven't burned a batch in three years.
I dump them in the sink and run cold water. The hiss of steam fills the kitchen. Lily slides off her stool, comes to stand beside me.
"It's okay, Mama. Everyone makes mistakes."
That's what I'm supposed to say to her. Not the other way around.
I start over. Measure the flour three times. Tell myself the postcard is nothing. A prank. Someone's cruel joke. Kira is dead. I went to her funeral. Watched them lower the casket while Dominic's hand sat heavy on my shoulder.
Except I can't actually picture the funeral. Can't remember it. Just another gap.
I'm putting the new pans in the oven when my phone rings.
The sound cuts through everything. I look at the screen.
3:33 AM. Unknown Number.
It keeps ringing. Four. Five. Six.
"Mama, your phone."
"I know."
I should let it go to voicemail. Unknown numbers at three thirty in the morning mean nothing good.
But my hand is already reaching for it. Muscle memory. Five years of training that says ignoring him makes everything worse.
I answer.
"Hello?"
Breathing. Just breathing.
Then, "Hello, Elena. Happy anniversary."
The phone almost slips. I catch it. Can't speak. Can't think past the white noise in my head.
"I know you received my little gift." His voice is smooth. Warm, even. Like he's calling to chat. "The postcard. Quite clever, don't you think? I do hope you're not letting your imagination run wild. You know how unreliable your memory can be, darling."
"How did you get this number?"
"Elena." He sighs. Disappointed. "I've always had your number. Did you really think Portland was far enough? That changing your name would make you invisible?"
The walls are too close. The locks are useless. Everything I built is cardboard.
"What do you want?"
"Just checking in. Making sure you and Lily are well. She must be so big now. Six years old. Does she look like you, I wonder?"
Lily. He said her name.
"Stay away from us."
"Now, that's no way to talk to family." His voice drops lower. Intimate. "We are still family, Elena. A divorce doesn't change blood. I'll be seeing you soon. We have so much to catch up on. Seven years is far too long."
The line goes dead.
I stand there holding the phone. Counting in Russian. Trying to remember how to breathe.
One. Two. Three.
Lily has stopped drawing. She's watching me with those eyes that see everything.
"The Tall Man called."
It's not a question.
I force my mouth into something like a smile. "Wrong number, baby."
But she knows.
We both know.
He found us.