Chapter 6 - The Watch That Stopped Ten Years Ago
The woman in the trench coat froze mid-motion, her arms still outstretched toward Lily. She slowly lowered her hands, pulling back the sleeve of her coat to reveal a silver vintage wristwatch strapped tightly to her wrist. The glass face of the watch was cracked diagonally, and the small second hand was permanently frozen at precisely 8:14. The grandfather stared at the timepiece, his breath catching in his throat. It was the exact watch he had given to his daughter on her wedding day—the same watch she had been wearing the night her car allegedly plunged off the coastal cliff into the churning ocean below.
“How do you have that?” the grandfather asked, his voice cracking with emotional agony as he took a slow, painful step toward her. “I buried you. I held the service. I planted the headstone with my own hands.”
“You buried an empty casket, Dad,” his daughter replied, her voice thick with unshed tears. She didn't look at her father; instead, her gaze shifted to the man in the grey overcoat standing beside the counter. “And you stopped looking for me after three months because it was easier to collect the inheritance than to keep searching the slums.”
The man in the grey overcoat flinched as if he had been physically struck. He dropped the cake box onto the counter with a heavy thud, the blue and white frosting shivering under the impact.
“We thought you were dead, Elena,” the man muttered, clenching his fists at his sides. “The police found your car at the bottom of the ravine. They found your purse on the passenger seat. What were we supposed to believe?”
“You were supposed to check the license plates,” Elena snapped back, her eyes flashing with sudden, cold fury. She stood up slowly, towering over the little girl who was now clutching the hem of her trench coat for safety. “You were supposed to realize that the car at the bottom of that cliff belonged to a shell corporation owned by the very man standing behind this counter.”
Everyone in the bakery turned to look at the baker. The young man in the chef uniform did not flinch, nor did he look away. He calmly untied his black apron, folded it neatly, and placed it on top of the pastry case beside the two-tier birthday cake.
“My name isn’t important,” the baker said smoothly, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “What is important is that you’re all finally in the same room. Exactly where the client wanted you to be.”
“What client?” the grandfather demanded, raising his wooden cane in a threatening gesture. “Who is behind this sick game?”
The baker didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached into his chef pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key, tossing it across the glass counter toward the grandfather. The old man caught it clumsily against his chest.
“The person waiting for you at the address on the bottom of that box,” the baker said, walking around the counter and heading straight for the back exit door. “He’s the one who paid for the cake. And he’s the one who holds the mortgage on every single property your family lost twenty years ago.”
The back door slammed shut behind the baker, leaving the four of them standing in the quiet shop with the blue and white birthday cake glowing under the fluorescent lights.
May you like
Elena slowly turned her head to look at the man in the grey overcoat, her expression chilling. “He’s still alive, Thomas. And he knows about the child.”
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