He Gained A Tart, I Gained The Bank Account

Bernadette Sloane had opened the back door of Sloane Bakehouse at three thirty-eight in the morning for nine years, and the keypad had never once shown her a green light where a red one belonged.

The log said her husband's code had gone in at 10:41 the night before and out at 12:07. The deck oven sat at 375, a temperature nothing in Birdie's book bakes at. Six tart shells cooled on her racks, on her parchment, beautiful enough that she stood there with her hands behind her back and gave them the word. Propped against the rail, a hand-cut card: DEVEREAUX PASTRY. Trial nine. Please leave these!! xx.

Birdie took twenty-two photographs. Then she made four hundred and eighty croissants, because the wholesale truck leaves at seven whether or not a marriage is intact.

Foster Sloane had his name on the building and a story about the brand he built. What he had on paper was two percent of a limited liability company, redeemable at book value at the last completed quarter, on terms he signed in 2016 without reading past the signature line.

Two percent came to eleven hundred dollars.

Birdie weighs things. Flour, butter, the trim bucket at the end of the night. A number is a fact you can hold in your hand.

Everything else is a story somebody is telling you.

A standalone revenge story in the Lies, Cheats, & Betrayals series.