Not at the bakery door.

At Maribel’s private back entrance.

Three slow knocks.

Nolan moved immediately.

“Stay here.”

He opened the door.

No one stood outside.

Only snow.

And a wooden box.

Inside was a folded note.

Maribel opened it.

Her blood turned cold.

STOP LOOKING OR THE CHILD DIES NEXT.

Nolan wanted to take Grace and leave Widow Creek that night.

Maribel refused.

“You’ll freeze before reaching the county line.”

“I’ll find somewhere.”

“You have a ranch.”

“A ranch someone entered.”

“And running tells whoever wrote this note that frightening you works.”

His eyes flashed.

“They threatened my daughter.”

“They threatened her because they’re afraid of what we might find.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should.”

He stared at her as though she were insane.

Maribel held up the ledger.

“Elias wrote Evelyn’s name.”

Nolan looked away.

“She was involved.”

“Or investigating.”

“Either way, someone believes these pages matter.”

Nolan paced once across the kitchen.

Then stopped.

“You’re not afraid enough.”

Maribel laughed bitterly.

“I buried my son and husband before winter. Fear already took everything it knew how to threaten me with.”

His expression changed.

Maribel’s voice softened.

“Except Grace.”

Nolan looked at her.

“And you,” she added before she could stop herself.

Silence.

The words could not be retrieved.

Nolan crossed the room.

Slowly.

“Maribel.”

She lifted her chin.

“We’re both grieving. Don’t mistake dependence for—”

“I know what grief is.”

“So do I.”

“I know what gratitude is too.”

“Then don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?”

She couldn’t answer.

His hand rose, then stopped inches from her face.

He waited.

Maribel could have stepped away.

She did not.

Nolan touched her cheek.

The gesture was so gentle it hurt.

She closed her eyes.

Then Grace cried from the basket.

Maribel laughed helplessly.

Nolan rested his forehead against hers.

“Excellent timing.”

“She’s very judgmental.”

“She gets that from you.”

Maribel opened her eyes.

For the first time in months, she wanted something from the future.

That frightened her more than the note.

The breakthrough came from Abigail Harper.

Three days after Christmas, she entered the bakery carrying a sealed envelope.

“My late sister worked for Dr. Venn,” she said.

Maribel and Nolan exchanged glances.

“When?”

“Nearly twenty years.”

Abigail placed the envelope on the table.

“She died last spring.”

“What is this?” Nolan asked.

“Something she told me to burn if Dr. Venn was still alive when she died.”

Maribel stared.

“And you didn’t?”

Abigail sniffed.

“I have never been particularly obedient.”

Inside were six sheets of paper.

Patient names.

Dates.

Births.

Deaths.

Payments.

And beside several newborn deaths, the same black cross Elias had used.

Maribel’s hands went numb.

Matthew Quinn.

Two days old.

Black cross.

Evelyn Pierce.

Maternal death.

Black cross.

Nolan made a sound deep in his throat.

“What does it mean?”

Abigail’s face had lost all color.

“My sister believed Venn was selling medicines meant for the town clinic to mining camps across the border.”

“Stealing supplies?” Maribel asked.

“Not merely stealing.”

Abigail pointed to the infant records.

“He falsified illnesses to hide shortages.”