MacKenzie
I kept my head down and focused on the sink, scrubbing the industrial mixing bowl until my knuckles turned raw. Usually, the bakery was the only place in Mount Tabor where the air didn’t feel heavy, but today it was suffocating.
I’d seen the flyers on my way in. Some were still stuck to the base of the bridge near the park, and I’d ripped one down, the glossy paper slicing into my thumb. I knew that face. Not just from the old stories people whispered about at the laundromat, but because Myra still looks like that beautiful young version of herself when no one is watching.
Tony was pacing. He’d been back for ten minutes and hadn’t stopped moving, his boots thumping against the floorboards as he talked about some town meeting.
"Saturday," Tony muttered, his voice tight. "Billi
