Usually, my recipes got ten or twelve comments in the first hour.

This was different.

My eyes scanned the top notification.

“The bake time is 911 minutes,” a user named *BakerBee88* had written. “And she listed 120 ounces of salt. Guys, 120 is the code for the county line.”

Directly below that, another comment from *SourdoughSam* appeared.

“Look at the address on her about page,” the comment read. “Then look at the temperature she wrote. 404 degrees. That’s a status code, but it’s also her old street number.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

They were doing it.

They were actually reading between the lines.

“Give me the phone now,” Julian repeated, his voice dropping an octave.

He lunged forward.

I swung the jar of lemons with all my strength.

I did not aim for his face.

I aimed for his wrist.

The heavy glass slammed into his forearm with a dull thud.

Julian cried out, grabbing his arm and stumbling back against the pantry doorframe.

Harris reached for his belt, his hand instinctively going for his holster, but it was empty.

His face turned red.