RIO
I’d burned three batches of cookies in my life, and every single one of them had been when my nerves were shot.
Tonight threatened to make it four.
I walked around the house, my bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor. I kept glancing at the oven timer, feeling a weight in my chest.
The air smelled like cinnamon and sugar—warm and comforting—but it didn’t match the worry from the text message stuck in my mind.
Come out, come out, wherever you are. See you soon.
There was no name, no number that I recognized—just that ominous message. Google reverse number lookup was no help.
The cinnamon rolls sat on the counter, their icing melting and sliding down the sides. They should have made me feel proud and normal. Instead, they just seemed out of place, like something bad was about to h
