Chapter 3 - Footsteps in the Cold Alley
The heavy metallic thud against the rear delivery door echoed through the kitchen, shattering the silence. Thomas instinctively scooped Leo into his arms. The boy was lighter than he imagined, fitting against his chest with an instinctive cling, small fingers burying into the collar of Thomas’s white polo shirt.
""Shh,"" Thomas murmured, pressing a hand against the back of Leo’s soft brown hair. ""Stay quiet, Leo.""
At the sound of his name, the boy’s hazel eyes widened, but he obeyed, pressing his damp cheek against Thomas’s neck. Thomas moved swiftly behind the front counter, crouching low out of sight of both the plate-glass windows and the kitchen doorway.
A second strike hit the back metal door—harder this time, accompanied by the muffled scrape of a crowbar testing the deadbolt. Whoever was on the other side wasn't knocking out of politeness; they were trying to pry the frame open without making enough noise to alert the entire block.
Elena had said Chicago. Chicago meant a past Thomas had spent six years running from. Before he was a baker in this quiet upstate town, he was an accountant for a distribution network that turned out to be an laundering front for Marcus Vance. When Thomas fled, he took nothing, changed his name, and left behind everyone he cared about—including Elena, who had sworn she had no ties to Vance’s inner circle.
He had believed she moved on. He had never imagined she was carrying his child.
The scratching at the rear lock suddenly ceased. A second later, the sharp ring of the bakery’s landline telephone pierced the room.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Thomas stared at the handset mounted to the wall three feet above his head. Nobody ever called the shop on this line except flour suppliers and the occasional delivery driver.
Ring.
Leo flinched against his chest, letting out a frightened whimper. Thomas shifted the boy to his left arm and reached up, lifting the receiver off the cradle and pressing it to his ear without speaking.
May you like
A harsh, rhythmic breathing came through the wire. Then, a low, rasping voice spoke with chilling familiarity:
""Hang up the phone, Tommy, and walk out front. If you make me break this glass, the boy won't live to eat that pastry.""
