After he exhausted his pee reserve, I walked Not Brent back toward the building, hoping to sneak in before Mrs. Mets saw and figured out I still had a dog stashed in my apartment. We passed the small makeshift parking lot at the back of the building and I scowled at the empty spot where a few hours earlier Broadrick's bike had sat next to my car.

He'd definitely gone then.

I locked Not Brent safely in my apartment with a bowl of food and a chewy treat to keep him busy. It was only a four-hour shift at the bakery, a fill-in spot to help with orders, but I didn't like to leave him alone for long periods. What if he grew bored and opened the fridge and had a feast? Or chewed off a door?

I'd never had a dog before and wasn't really sure what they were capable of, but I knew I didn't want to find out with Mrs. Mets as my landlord.

Only a few cars were parked in the lot behind the bakery and I pulled into one off to the side. The back entrance to the bakery was employees only, and I bounded up the steps and knocked on the door, hoping someone might let me in so I didn't have to walk around to the front.

We were closer to the ocean at the bakery, but the buildings provided a little cover from the winds.

Anessa opened the door, her hair in a frizzle frazzle framing her head. "I'm so glad you're here."

She ushered me into the bakery, and I breathed in a sigh of relief when the heat from the ovens enveloped me from the freezing temps outside.

"Everything okay?" I asked, donning the frilly pink apron with my name embroidered on the front.

I scooched Samantha, the box, next to the apron pile, hoping she'd blend in and look like she belonged. The top of the box never recovered from the coffee stain that discolored the flap. After Not Brent laid on it earlier one side was a little crushed. But otherwise, it was basically brand new.

Anessa returned to the large metal island in the middle of the kitchen space. "I'm so behind. We need to make another three hundred cookies tonight."

I took up a spot on the other side of the island and pulled the giant metal bowl of chocolate chip cookie mix to me, using a baller to scrape out the perfect size for each cookie before placing them on a baking sheet. Anessa used another bowl to mix a second batch of ingredients. We hit our rhythm a few minutes in and had a great system in place. A top forties radio station played on low in the background.

Once I filled a cooking tray of dough balls, Anessa dropped it into the oven and removed a finished one, letting the cookies cool off to the side.

She filled the oven with sheets of baking cookies and had a rack cooling in the corner. But from experience, we still had a lot to go. I'd probably spend my four-hour shift making cookie dough balls. At least I didn't have to talk to anyone.

The swinging metal doors that separated the bakery kitchen from the front sales portion opened. Tabitha peeked her head out from the front of the store. "It's dead out here. I could help."

"No!" Anessa yelled at her friend and employee.

I flinched along with Tabitha.

Anessa laughed, pushing back a piece of her hair from her face, recovering from her outburst. "Sorry, but you know the rules."

Tabitha wasn't allowed to help bake. It always ended in disaster. Apparently, she once burned water or something. I wasn't around when it happened, so I couldn't confirm. But one time I asked her to grab a sheet of cookies from the oven for me because my hands were full.

Burned. Every single one of them.

Like from one second to the next. As soon as her hand touched them, they dried up and became overcooked bricks. It was the weirdest thing because every batch before and after came out fine. The oven temperature hadn't changed, and nothing else moved. The only difference was the one tray Tabitha touched.

So, while I felt bad for Tabitha being out front alone, I understood why Anessa had to be careful.

Anessa waved her hand as if she was shooing Tabitha away, not wanting her to even lean into the kitchen while we worked. Cookie smells wafted out of the oven as she opened it.

"I need to ask you guys for advice," I said before Tabitha reluctantly left.

"See?" Tabitha instantly brightened. "I have to stay for advice time."

Anessa sighed and returned to dumping an enormous bag of chocolate chips into her mix. "Fine, but stay way over there."

Tabitha frowned, but stepped back so she didn't pass the swinging doors. "Well, what's up?"

"I think I may have solved the murder case, but I'm not sure how to prove it."

Anessa's eyes lit up, and she tossed her chocolate chip bag in the trash. "Really? Who did it?"

I shook my head. It's not that I didn't want to tell them, but I had other people to tell first. "I can't say yet, but no one will believe me unless I prove it."

It took climbing under a porch, putting my hand in mysterious poop, and rescuing Brent for me to put the pieces together, but now that they had, it seemed so obvious. So obvious and simple yet devious that Anderson would never believe me.

I'd have to draw them a plot map. Or get a confession.

"You know what you need to do?" Anessa asked, looking at Tabitha.

"No, what?" Obviously, I didn't know if I asked them for advice.

"Call Ridge," Tabitha said.

My nose crinkled. "Eh, I'm not sure."

Ridge was a nice guy, but he already had a lot of solved cases under his belt. I wanted this one to be just mine. I did all the work so I should get the glory. Right?

Especially since there wasn't a paycheck involved. Finding Brent was the payday, but solving Jalinda's murder was my vigilante justice.

At least I didn't expect Jimmy would want to settle our tab after I had his mom arrested for murdering his wife.

I sniffed, giving the air a good whiff. The smell changed from freshly cooking cookies to something else. Hot. Burning.

"Oh shit, Anessa," I said as smoke poured out from the top oven.

Waves of it rose toward the ceiling and circled in the vents as it coated the room in thick, black air.

"What the hell?" She opened the oven door, but that only let more smoke waft out into the room. "Tabitha!"

The fire alarms blared to life as the perfect punctuation to her hollered accusation.