Undercover Shadows of Justice

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Blackridge, Montana

The best part of the morning rush for Holly at Sanctuary Coffee was the moment when the whole place found its rhythm.

It usually happened around seven-forty, once the first wave of courthouse employees had collected their caffeine and the teachers from Blackridge Elementary had stopped pretending they were only ordering one espresso shot.

The front door kept swinging open and closed, letting in bursts of early spring air scented with rain on pavement and the faint sweetness of the dogwood trees blooming along Main Street.

The espresso machine hissed. The grinder growled.

Indie folk music floated through the speakers, soft enough not to compete with conversation but steady enough to make the shop feel awake.

Behind the counter, Holly Bristol moved through it all by memory and instinct.

“Large black coffee, no room, and a blueberry scone for Judge Madsen,” she called, sliding the cup and white paper bag across the counter to the retired judge.

His bushy eyebrows dipped. “You trying to make an old man predictable?”

“No, sir.” She winked at him. “You did that all by yourself.”

He gave her the stern look that had probably terrified witnesses for forty years, but his mouth twitched. “Fair enough.”

“Tell Mrs. Madsen I have her lemon bars boxed and waiting.”

“She’s off shopping with her sister. She sent me here with a note to pick them up,” he said, patting the front pocket of his windbreaker. “I had every intention of pretending I remembered on my own.”

Holly smiled and reached for the box, setting it on the counter with his order. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Most secrets were inside Sanctuary.

Holly had chosen the name before she had the money, the building, or anything except a notebook full of drink recipes and the kind of stubborn hope common sense should have strangled but hadn’t.

Sanctuary Coffee wasn’t catchy, and she knew it. Her best friend Roni had suggested half a dozen alternatives involving beans, brews, and one truly unfortunate pun about “grounds for happiness,” but Holly hadn’t been able to let go of the word sanctuary.

A place to breathe, to belong. A place where the lights were warm, the chairs didn’t match, and nobody had to earn the right to sit quietly with a cup of coffee and still feel supported and safe.

She’d built the place one patched wall, one borrowed dollar, and one exhausted late night at a time.

Now the old brick storefront on the corner of Main and Laurel belonged to her in all the ways that mattered, even if the bank still owned enough of it to send monthly love letters with interest rates.

The front windows were tall and arched, framed by trailing ivy she hadn’t killed yet, which she considered a personal triumph.

Local art covered one wall. A community board covered another.

The scarred wooden tables had come from auctions, estate sales, and one church basement that had smelled like mothballs, lemon cleaner, and old hymnals.

No two chairs were exactly alike, which made the shop look as if it had gathered furniture the same way it gathered people—slowly, gently, and with room for the dented parts.

“Holly?” Maya, her morning barista, lifted two cups and squinted at the handwriting. “Is this oat milk for Bethany or regular for Britany? I’m begging every mother in this town to stop naming their daughters with the same seven letters.”

“Oat milk for Bethany. Britany gets vanilla and regular milk because she says oat milk tastes like wet cardboard.”

Maya snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

Holly capped Judge Madsen’s coffee and glanced at the small tablet mounted near the pastry case.

The screen showed her apartment above the shop, where Sweet Blue was sprawled on the rug in front of the couch with a puzzle feeder between his paws.

The dog’s speckled blue-gray ears twitched every few seconds, and one sharp brown eye watched the toy as if it might paw him back.

“Still plotting?” Maya asked.

Holly chuckled. “He’s deciding whether to solve the puzzle or file a complaint with management.”

“Blue is management.”

“Don’t say that where he can hear you. He’ll expect dental.”

Sweet Blue wasn’t allowed in the café, no matter how many customers claimed they wouldn’t mind.

Holly had fought too hard through permits, inspections, occupancy limits, and the petty tyranny of one former health inspector to risk everything because her dog had excellent cheekbones and a fan club.

Blue lived upstairs with her and had a stockpile of toys, a camera, and more opinions than any creature without thumbs deserved.

He got long walks before opening, in the afternoon if the weather cooperated, and regular trips to Roni’s doggy daycare whenever Holly had a long day.

Officially, he was Holly’s dog. Unofficially, he was the reason she didn’t work herself into a fossilized lump of espresso grounds and anxiety.

The bell over the door jingled again, and Holly looked up automatically.

Her smile was already in place, and she offered it to customers she knew and those she didn’t, on bad days and good ones.

It was a staple for people who needed caffeine, kindness, or both.

Most mornings, she could tell which one before they reached the counter.

The man who stepped inside needed caffeine and a personality transplant. Today, he wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Holly’s first espresso machine and a Bluetooth earpiece. His gaze swept the line, the tables, the pastry case, and then Holly, as if he’d found them all lacking.

Maya’s mouth barely moved as she murmured, “Heads up. Table four guy.”

Holly kept her smile easy. “I see him.”

Table Four Guy had an actual name—Hoyt Sullivan—but he’d forfeited the right to it months ago when he’d snapped his fingers at Maya. Holly had corrected him politely. He’d apologized, then continued showing up three times a week to order complicated drinks and complain about them.

Today, he skipped the line and planted himself at the pickup counter. “I called ahead,” he said.

Holly glanced at the row of cups waiting beside the machine. “Good morning to you, too. Name?”

He huffed. “You know my name, Holly.”

She hadn’t liked Hoyt in school, and she didn’t like him now. “Mr. Sullivan, we’ll have it ready shortly.”

“I called ten minutes ago.”

“We had a line ten minutes ago, just like we do now. As I said, your drink will be ready shortly.”

Maya turned away to hide a smile and returned to steaming milk. Holly reached for the cup with his name on it, but Hoyt leaned both hands on the counter and raised his voice. “I’m already late. I don’t have time for this.”

Holly had learned a long time ago that men like Hoyt often mistook volume for authority. They liked the illusion that their irritation could rearrange the world.

The old Holly—the one who had grown up measuring the emotional weather of every room before she spoke— would have made herself smaller. She would have apologized too much and rushed, hands shaking, because keeping the peace had once felt like survival.

This Holly owned the counter, the shop, and the very cup he expected to carry out with coffee in it.

“I understand,” she said, keeping her voice calm. She handed the cup to Maya. “Your drink is next.”

Hoyt looked past her toward Maya. “It better be right this time. Last time it tasted burnt.”

Maya’s shoulders tightened.

Holly’s smile thinned by one careful degree. “Then I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know Maya makes the best cappuccino in Blackridge.”

“I ordered a flat white.”

Behind her, the machine whirred as Maya started on his drink. “I’m aware.”

“Are you?”

Several customers had gone quiet. Judge Madsen paused at the door, lemon bars tucked under his arm, his eyes narrowing. At the corner table, one of the regulars, Allen Davies, folded his newspaper and looked over the top of his reading glasses.

Holly forced her smile to stay confident. “I believe everyone in here is aware of it.” His mouth turned down but before he could raise his voice to her again, she added, “You’ll feel better once the caffeine hits your system.”

Allen rose from his table. He was in his early fifties, with neatly cut salt-and-pepper hair, a navy overcoat, and a calm face that made people lower their voices around him.

“I’m sure Holly is moving as fast as humanly possible,” Allen said. His tone was mild, almost friendly. He pointedly looked at the line that was inching out the door. “Which, given the line, appears to be faster than most humans.”

A few people chuckled. The tension loosened.

Hoyt glanced at him, annoyed. “This doesn’t concern you, counselor.”

“No,” Allen agreed. “But bad manners in this particular coffee shop tend to become a community event.”

Judge Madsen made a sound that might have been a cough of approval.

Holly set Hoyt’s cup on the counter before the man could decide whether to escalate or retreat. “Flat white. Extra shot. One raw sugar. Have a good day.”

He snatched it up, muttered something about customer service, and stalked toward the door. Every customer in line gave him a chastising look. The bell jangled hard behind him.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Maya exhaled through her teeth and said, “I hope he has the day he deserves.”

The shop laughed, and the morning rush found its rhythm again.

Allen waited until the line had moved before he approached the counter. “You handled that well.”

“I handled it before you turned it into a closing argument.”

His smile was small and kind. “Occupational hazard.”

“Former occupation.”

He gave a small smile and shrug. “Some habits are harder to retire than others.”