26. Caeleb

Soft streaks of buttery sunlight pour in through large, paneled windows, bathing my kitchen in warmth. I look around, breathing easy as the old comfort of my favorite childhood space envelopes me. The yellow walls hold an array of antique copper pots and pans, their patina worn and beloved. Open shelves crafted from reclaimed wood display a colorful assortment of spices and herbs, each jar a nod to my British and Brazilian roots. A large, rustic farmhouse table dominates the center of the room, its surface marked by generations of use.

In one corner, a vintage cast-iron stove, now restored, stands. This is where my grandmother and mother inculcated my love for cooking, where my history was made with freshly baked bread, simmering fruits, and the unmistakable aroma of coffee brewed to perfection. Next to the stove, a modern espresso machine sits incongruously.

The countertops, made of polished soapstone, bear an array of ingredients freshly sourced from local farmers markets: vibrant vegetables, herbs so green they seem to pulse with life, and eggs with yolks the color of the setting sun. This bounty is a means for me to express my passion for sustainable food practices and my commitment to ethical food sourcing. Hanging above the island, a set of well-used knives gleam in the morning light, each one chosen for its precision and balance. Nearby, a series of black-and-white photographs capture the essence of street food cultures around the world.

I get to work, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull my senses, although Ive had a very disturbed nights sleep. A good cooking session can fix the worst of moods. The sizzle of bacon on the griddle, the gentle bubbling of berry compote, and the soft thud of a knife chopping through fresh produce—these are the things that bring renewed life to me, that remind me of my journey from a young boy learning at his mothers side to a chef advocating for the convergence of taste and sustainability.

I smile as I delve deeper into my work—cracking eggs with one hand, flipping pancakes, and stirring a pot of simmering berries that fills the air with a tantalizing aroma. The sizzle of bacon competes with the soft hum of the refrigerator. A glance at the clock tells me Im on schedule, but theres no room for complacency. Every detail, from the fluffy golden pancakes to the crisply fried bacon, must be perfect.

With the last pancake done, I begin the delicate process of assembly. I layer the pancakes, drizzling each with a generous amount of syrup and a scattering of berries, their juices seeping into the fluffy stacks. The bacon, crispy and glistening, finds its place next to the pancakes, and a freshly brewed pot of coffee completes the ensemble. Its more than just a meal; its a message, a promise of the day ahead. I carefully pack everything, wrapping the warm dishes in towels to retain their heat, and place them gently into a large basket. The weight of it feels satisfying in my hands.

Before I head out, I pause, pulling out my phone to send a quick text to Silas and Finn. Morning, gents. Headed to Emilys with breakfast. Big day ahead—planning to hunt for the secret room after. Join us when you can. The message sent, I pocket my phone and grab the basket, my heart thrumming with anticipation.

To be honest, this breakfast is more than a means to surprise her. I actually want to apologize for making her feel out of sorts during the last conversation we had. I saw it in her eyes—she knew I suspected that shed run whenever things went south. A part of me still feels that way, but that wasnt the right time to unload on her.

I sigh as I get in my car and start the engine. I dont want to alienate Emily. In fact, what I want most of all is for her to see that … that shes the best thing to have happened to me since Brian. I didnt think Id ever get a chance to feel the way she makes me feel. If only shed just stop running.

Maybe I can convince her today, after breakfast.

I dont know why, but as I pull into the driveway, a sense of unease creeps up my spine. What if I cant convince her? That night at the vineyard … I couldnt find out who the man was. I thought of asking Flora, but it didnt happen, and now Emily could easily think I dont care enough to find out the details of a possible stalker.

Great job, Caeleb, I think bitterly as I step outside, basket in hand. Dont do anything useful, just make her breakfast.

I tell myself the first thing Ill do once I get out of here is contact Flora and try to get to the bottom of the mysterious figure from that night. But before I can, the mansion door holds another surprise, and not a pleasant one. Its locked. Im about to turn around when my foot kicks a stone and I wince in pain. What the hell is it doing on the porch? I kick the stone away, uttering a stream of curses as I do. And then I see it. A folded note. And a key.

This cant be good. Nothing good happens with a letter and a key, unless its in a movie.

I balance the basket carefully. My stomach twists into a knot as I open the letter.

Ive gone back to NYC. I think its best if we ended this right here and now. Ive left a key to the mansion. I know you guys can get to the bottom of my dads letter. If you do, keep whatever he left behind. Im sorry I couldnt stay—E.

The crumpled note shakes in my hand, as tremors of betrayal rip through me.

Gone? Just like that? A bitter laugh escapes my lips, echoing harshly in the morning stillness. We werent perfect, we werent even fully there yet, but we were building something. Or so Id thought. Im sure Finn and Silas felt the same way.

Plus, what the hell is this? I shake the note in my hand, resisting the dire urge to crumple it. Is she in high school? Did she really think leaving a note would be the way to go, that wed just sit back and accept it?

Apparently, we were fools, I mutter to myself. Ive dealt with a lot in my life. Ive had heartbreak before. But this feels doubly sharp because I allowed myself to think it would be different. I did that, she didnt. Its all my fault.

An icy rage rises within me, battling the gut-wrenching feeling of abandonment. She didnt even try to explain, just this—a cold slap in the face masquerading as a breakup note. My hands clench into fists, biting into my skin.

All this while later, and I was right. She proved my point. She ran. She ran like Id known she would.

What a time to be right about something, I tell myself, unable to keep the urge for self-deprecation at bay.

I look down at the basket, now nothing more than a dead weight full of food Ill have to carry back. The scent of bacon and eggs turns my stomach. Emily! I shout, not caring if my voice cracks, or if anyone else can hear me. All I know is this burning vacuum inside, this need to tear into something, someone, anything to ease the pain of her sudden, silent departure.

The rumble of Finns car breaks the quiet that follows. My head snaps up, hope and anger vying for control within me. Maybe she left something with him, a message, an explanation?

But as he gets closer, the disarming smile on his lips tells me he has no idea either. Caeleb, what— Before he can finish speaking, I pass the note to him. I see the answering devastation in his eyes, the crumpled shoulders, the way his gaze falls. My knees buckle, and I sink onto the porch steps, burying my face in my hands.

Damn it, I growl, the words ragged through clenched teeth. Im angry at her, at myself, at the whole damned world for turning everything upside down.

Silas appears moments later. Finn hands him the note. The two of them sit down beside me, grim creases between their brows. I search their faces for understanding, but its obviously useless because theyre as clueless as I am.

Gone? Finn manages to choke out, a single syllable choked with disbelief.

A harsh laugh leaves me. I dont know why Im so disappointed, honestly, I murmur, steepling my fingers in front of me. She never said she expected this to be a long-term thing.

I see Silas eye the basket and wince. Both of them understand how hard this hits, because all of us felt the same way. She managed to fool three grown men.

Finn begins to speak, his tone low. Not in so many words, but?—

You have your proof, I snap, refusing to hear anything else. What more do you need?