Chapter 1 #3
She folded the towel with more precision than cotton deserved. “How’s he settling in?”
Roni watched her a beat too long. “Okay, I think. He’s helping with Granddad, working at Shadow Point Security, and doing that Reid thing where he says everything is fine in a tone that suggests it’s a law.”
“Sounds like him.”
“He asked about you.”
Holly’s fingers tightened around the towel. “Did he?”
Roni dropped her voice. “‘How’s Holly?’ Like he was asking about road conditions and not the woman I’ve been trying to set him up with since approximately forever.”
Heat rose in Holly’s face. “You have not been trying to set me up with Reid since forever.”
“Only because he joined the Navy and left town before I could implement my plan.”
Holly turned to a stack of clean saucers.
Roni had no idea that her plan had briefly, disastrously, beautifully implemented itself the night before Reid left for the Navy.
She didn’t know Holly had spent years pretending one night hadn’t become the measuring stick no other man could survive.
She didn’t know every failed date had been doomed before appetizers because Holly kept comparing ordinary men to a memory with dark eyes, broad shoulders, and quiet confidence.
“Tell him I said hi,” Holly said, proud of how normal she sounded.
Roni’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it?”
“Yes, why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe welcome home? Come by for coffee? Please have your sister stop throwing dentists and pasta men at me because her matchmaking strategy is becoming a cry for help?”
“You need to get to work, Roni.”
Roni laughed and pushed away from the counter. “Kiss Blue for me. And wear something Sunday night that doesn’t smell like espresso.”
“Goodbye, Veronica.”
Roni froze at the door and turned slowly, one hand pressed to her chest. “That was unnecessary violence.”
Holly blew her a kiss and Roni left. Holly watched through the front windows as her best friend splashed through a shallow puddle, nearly lost her footing, recovered with a flourish, and disappeared down the sidewalk toward her SUV.
Reid was back. Not visiting, but back in Blackridge, helping care for his grandfather, sitting on Roni’s daycare floor with puppies, and asking how Holly was in that careful, controlled way of his.
Roni had been thrilled when he’d called to tell her he was retiring. The now former Navy JAG lawyer was gorgeous, brilliant, and probably still far too good at leaving.
Holly gave herself three seconds to feel the old ache, then turned back to the shop.
By midmorning, the crowd thinned to the regular lull between commuters and lunch.
Maya glanced at the clock. “I’m going to run to the bank and grab more receipt tape unless you need me here.”
“Go,” Holly said. “Better to do it now before lunch.”
Maya untied her apron and hung it on the hook. “Text me if the oat milk apocalypse hits.”
“Always.”
Holly restocked the pastry case, wiped down tables, and carried a gray ceramic mug to Mrs. Alvarez, who came in every weekday at ten-fifteen, ordered chamomile tea she never finished, and worked on her novel-in-progress.
The rain had picked up, blurring the view through the front windows.
Holly made a note to bring in the patio chairs if the wind got worse.
The patio was one of her favorite parts of Sanctuary, even on wet days—the little fenced space along Laurel with string lights, planters, and dog hooks mounted at every table.
Blue considered the patio his kingdom when he was allowed out to visit.
Holly returned to the counter and found a loyalty card lying beside the register.
At first, she thought someone had forgotten it.
That happened all the time. People abandoned punch cards, sunglasses, gloves, umbrellas, and once a ceramic garden gnome with no explanation.
She picked up the card, intending to tuck it into the little lost-and-found box under the counter.
Then she noticed every circle had been punched.
All ten of them.
That was odd but not impossible. Customers sometimes saved completed cards for weeks before redeeming them. Holly flipped the card over to check for a name.
The words on the back were written in neat black block letters over the Sanctuary Coffee text.
Some people don’t deserve sanctuary.
Holly stared at the card as her brows drew together.
A prank. It had to be a prank. Maybe Hoyt had left it. Maybe some teenager thought ominous coffee commentary was hilarious. Maybe someone from the courthouse had a bleak sense of humor after too many arraignments.
She looked out the windows. A woman hurried by under a red umbrella and a delivery truck idled at the curb across the street. The patio was empty, rain darkening the tabletops and string lights swaying in the wind.
Holly slid the card into her apron pocket. She checked the camera upstairs. Blue was standing now, ears forward, body angled toward the apartment door. Her breath caught, and she switched the view to the exterior security camera over it.
Nothing. The hall was empty.
She released a sigh, not sure why she was suddenly on edge. She went back to Blue and flicked on the audio. “You’re okay, buddy. False alarm. Aunt Roni sends you a kiss.” She blew one into the camera.
Blue’s ears flicked at her voice. He huffed, circled once, and lay down with his head still pointed toward the door.
She took a breath, pulled the card from her pocket, wrote the date and time on the front, then tucked it back in her pocket.
The bell over the door chimed.
Holly looked up, smile ready, and found two strangers stepping inside.
The man was mid-forties with close-cropped hair and a charcoal coat soaked with rain.
He lowered an umbrella, closing it and leaning it against the wall.
The woman with him wore dark slacks, a navy blazer, and practical low heels.
She tugged a wet lock of hair off her cheek.
They paused just inside the door, scanning the room. Holly’s smile faded before she could stop it.
The woman approached the counter and drew a slim leather wallet from inside her blazer. “Holly Bristol?”
“Yes.”
She opened the wallet. “Special Agent Claire Dawson, FBI. This is Special Agent Emmet Cahors. We’d like to speak with you privately.”
Holly studied the badges. She wouldn’t know a real from a fake, so she memorized their badge numbers in case she needed to follow up later. “Is something wrong?”
Agent Dawson’s expression didn’t change. She glanced at the windows. “As I said, we’d prefer to discuss it somewhere private.”
Holly’s skin prickled beneath her sweater.
She led them through the swinging door and into her small office tucked behind the kitchen.
It was barely large enough for a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and the number of sticky notes required to keep a small business from collapsing into chaos.
She could still hear the bell if someone walked in.
The walls were painted a soft green. A framed copy of her first dollar hung beside her business license. On the shelf above the desk sat a photo of Holly and Roni on opening day, both of them exhausted and grinning, their arms around each other and flour on Roni’s cheek.
Holly stayed standing. “What’s this about?”
Dawson and Cahors exchanged a brief look. “We’re investigating a series of crimes that may have a connection to your business,” Dawson said.
“Crimes?” Holly repeated.
Cahors nodded. “We have reason to believe several victims were customers.”
Her chest felt suddenly tight. “Victims of what?”
Dawson gestured toward the chair behind the desk. “You may want to sit down.”
Holly’s stomach clenched. “I don’t need to.”
Another one of those looks passed between them. Holly had dealt with enough lawyers, inspectors, bankers, contractors, and insurance adjusters to know when people had practiced a conversation before walking through her door. They’d decided what to say and what not to say. She braced herself.
“Over the last eight weeks, three people in the greater Blackridge area have been attacked,” Dawson said. “Two are dead. One survived, but she remains hospitalized.”
Holly’s hand found the edge of the desk. “And you think they came here?”
“We know they did.” Cahors flashed her a photograph on his phone of a series of people entering her shop. “All three were captured here by nearby street cameras within days of the attacks.”
Hundreds of people came through her shop every week.
Courthouse employees, teachers, tourists, retirees, parents, teenagers, cops, attorneys, women from the book club, men who played cards.
Some people wanted coffee, some wanted quiet, and some folks wanted to be around other humans without having to admit they were lonely.
“That can’t be the only connection,” Holly said.
“It isn’t,” Dawson said. “Items from your shop were found at more than one scene.”
Holly’s stomach dropped. “What kind of items?”
Dawson’s gaze flicked to Cahors again, and Holly’s patience snapped thin. “Stop holding back. What kind of items?”
Cahors answered. “A travel cup. A napkin. A pastry bag.”
Holly’s mouth went dry. “Those things leave here all day long.”
“We understand that,” Dawson said. “But the items were placed deliberately. They weren’t incidental trash.”
“Placed how?”
“We can’t disclose those details of the investigation.”
Holly stepped away from the desk, then had nowhere to go in the tiny room. “You can come in here, scare me half to death, tell me people are dead and my shop is connected, and then refuse to answer my question because procedure says so.”
Dawson’s expression softened a fraction. “Ms. Bristol, we don’t believe you’re involved.”
“How comforting.”
Cahors cleared his throat. “We believe someone may be using your shop to identify or access victims. Possibly to observe them, learn their routines, or make initial contact.”
Holly shook her head. “No, this is a coffee shop. People come to Sanctuary because they feel safe.”
Dawson held her gaze. “That may be exactly why the perpetrator chose it.”