𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝟏𝟑

The air feels heavy, almost suffocating. I sit behind the polished marble counter, staring at the open laptop in front of me, my fingers hovering over the keys but not moving.

The usual sounds of the bakery-the clinks of cups, the low hum of conversation-fade into the background. All I can think about is the name Davis mentioned earlier: Tariq St. Patrick.

I wait for the bakery to settle, watching as the lunchtime rush slowly dies down. A few stragglers linger, sipping their coffee and nibbling on pastries, but I'm not really paying attention to them. My mind is elsewhere. My heart's pounding as I type his name into the search bar. I don't know what I'm expecting to find, but I know I have to look. I have to know.

As soon as I hit enter, a flood of articles fills the screen. Headline after headline, all with the same name. Tariq St. Patrick. I click on the first link, my pulse quickening as I start to read.

"Tariq St. Patrick: A Promising Student or a Product of His Father's Criminal Legacy?"

I skim through the words, my eyes moving faster than my brain can process. Tariq's name is tied to everything-murders, drug deals, and a reputation he inherited from his father, James "Ghost" St. Patrick. I've heard the rumors before-everyone in the city has-but seeing it all laid out like this? It feels too close. Too real.

I click on another article, unable to stop myself. This one dives deeper into Tariq's world-the murder of his professor, and whispers about his involvement in a drug exchange gone wrong. I feel my stomach tighten.

I try to push back the memory of that day outside my bakery, when two men stood near the curb, exchanging something quick and subtle. I didn't think much of it then, but now, it's all I can think about. Could one of them have been Tariq?

I lean back in my chair, and the bakery suddenly feels too small. My fingers trace the edges of the papers Davis handed me earlier. I glance down at them, and there it is again: Tariq St. Patrick. His name is on everything. My bakery. My life. I didn't ask to be part of this mess.

Why me? Why my bakery?

I slam the laptop shut, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on my chest. My bakery was supposed to be my sanctuary, the one place where I could escape from everything. But now, it feels like it's been tainted by something dark, something dangerous. And I have no idea how to fix it.

I look back at the papers Davis gave me, the legal language blurring together as I try to make sense of it all. It's mostly jargon I don't understand, but one thing sticks out to me: Tariq St. Patrick was mentioned in connection to the drug exchange that happened right outside.

I was there. I didn't see anything-at least nothing that made sense at the time-but now, I wonder if I missed something. If I should've done more.

I rub my temples, the tension building behind my eyes. I need to clear my head, but it's impossible with all of this hanging over me.

The doorbell jingles, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glance up, forcing a smile for the customer who waves at me from across the room. But it feels hollow. Everything feels off now.

My gaze drifts back to the papers, to the name that keeps staring back at me. Tariq St. Patrick. I don't know why Davis is helping me or why this kid's name is tied to all of it, but I know one thing for sure-I can't just sit back and let this happen.

This is my bakery. My life. And I'll be damned if someone's going to drag me into their mess without a fight.