Chapter 6 #3
“No.” She leaned back slightly. “You’re still thinking about him.”
“Yes.”
“Because he’s big and quiet?”
“Because of the way he watched us this morning, came back for the group, sat where he could see the door, reacted to sudden movement and noise when the delivery driver flew in, and left alone without talking to anyone.”
“That could mean he’s traumatized, shy, or he hates small talk, which is not a crime.”
Reid didn’t say anything, chewing a bite of pizza.
She studied him over the rim of her drink glass. “But you think he fits what the FBI is looking for.”
“I think he fits enough to check.”
Holly set down the glass. She didn’t snap at him, and he gave her credit for that. The day before, she might’ve defended Hopper on principle, simply because Reid had raised the possibility. Tonight, she looked unhappy but willing to let the uncomfortable thought exist.
“He drinks black coffee,” she told him, “pays cash most of the time, and occasionally buys a blueberry muffin, but only if there aren’t many people in line.”
“Why only then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like making anyone wait.”
“Or doesn’t like attention.”
She picked at the edge of her napkin. “He isn’t rude. He doesn’t stare at me in a creepy way. He just seems…lonely.”
Reid didn’t dismiss that. Loneliness could harden a person. It could also hollow them out. Neither outcome proved guilt, but both mattered when lives were at stake.
“I’ll look into him,” he said.
She nodded, but he saw the conflict in her. She didn’t know Hopper well, but she still wanted him to be innocent.
They cleaned up their plates and Reid took the boxes to the alley dumpster. Blue watched every movement, devastated when no pizza fell and only mildly restored by the approved dog biscuit Holly gave him afterward.
The second night in her place held less sharp awkwardness than the first. They moved around each other with ease. She didn’t have to explain anything or point out the location of the bathroom or where the glasses were stored. Routine had begun forming around them.
Reid didn’t like how much he wanted it.
Holly went to bed a little after ten, pausing in the hall the same way she had the night before. “If you need anything…”
“I’m good.”
“Okay.” She glanced at Blue. “Good night, buddy.”
Blue thumped his tail once.
“Good night, Reid.”
“Good night.”
Her bedroom door stayed mostly open, and Reid heard the soft sounds of her settling in: a drawer closing, fabric moving, the click of a lamp. Then quiet.
He waited until the apartment had gone still before he opened his laptop on the coffee table. The couch was too short, his neck already disliked him, and Blue watched every keystroke as if Reid were entering classified information into the dog’s personal database.
Reid started with what he could access quickly: property records, public court filings, old news mentions, business registrations, anything that would give Hopper Shaw a shape beyond a big, quiet man with eyes on the exits.
Hopper’s full name appeared in a county property record tied to a small parcel north of town.
No obvious business listing. No recent criminal charges in the state database Reid could access without making a formal request. A civil case from years ago involving a boundary dispute up north. Nothing violent. Nothing useful.
He broadened the search.
His phone vibrated on the coffee table before the next page loaded.
Claire Dawson.
Reid answered on the first ring and kept his voice low. “Fleming.”
Blue lifted his head.
Claire didn’t waste time. “Where are you?”
“Holly’s apartment.”
“She with you?”
“In the other room. She’s asleep.”
Claire blew out a long, slow breath that made the hair on his arms rise. “We have another body.”
Reid’s hand tightened around the phone. He rose from the couch and moved toward the kitchen, putting more distance between his voice and Holly’s bedroom. “Who?”
“A man named Hoyt Sullivan.”
The apartment seemed to contract around him. Reid looked toward the dark hallway, then at his laptop still open on Hopper Shaw’s property record. “Where was he found?”
“In a warehouse office at a Sullivan Ridge Development site outside town. Patrol responded after his wife called in a welfare check. He didn’t come home, didn’t answer his phone. She’s being notified as we speak, but we’re keeping the situation quiet for now.”
“Cause?”
“Too early for the official answer. He had visible trauma, and there was staging.”
Reid already knew he wasn’t going to like the next sentence. “What kind?”
“A Sanctuary paper coffee cup was forced into his mouth.”
Blue stood, ears forward, body still.
Reid closed his eyes briefly and opened them before the image could take root. “Hoyt was at Sanctuary this morning.”
“Tell me everything.”
“He came in during the morning rush, rude and impatient, which was consistent with how Holly describes his usual behavior. I knew him from years ago and redirected the interaction. He calmed down, got his drink, and left.”
“Anyone watching?”
“Yes.” Reid looked at the laptop again. “A man named Hopper Shaw was outside near the patio gate during the exchange. Big, physically capable, seems reclusive. He watched Hoyt, watched me, then moved on. Later, he attended a support group at the shop.”
Claire paused. “Do you know Shaw?”
“No. Holly says he started coming in recently, lives outside the city limits, and keeps to himself. I was looking into him when you called.”
“Send me what you have.”
Reid rubbed his eyes. “I’ll also send timestamps from the shop cameras.”
“Anyone else?”
He heard movement in the hallway before he answered. Holly stood near her bedroom door in sleep-soft clothes and bare feet, one hand resting against the frame. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her face had gone pale enough that Reid knew she’d heard more than he wanted.
He looked away, hating what he was going to have to tell her. “No, no one. I’ll send the files.”
“Keep Holly close. I’ll update when I can.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, Reid stood there with the phone in his hand. She watched him from the hallway with fear she was trying hard not to show.
Blue moved first, crossing to stand beside Holly.
“What happened?” she asked.
Reid set the phone on the counter. There was no gentle way to make this gentle. “That was Claire. Hoyt Sullivan is dead.”
Her fingers tightened on the doorframe. “Hoyt?”
“They found him tonight.”
“Tell me it was natural causes.”
“It wasn’t.”
The words seemed to move through her slowly, rearranging the day in her mind the same way they were rearranging his. Hoyt at the counter. Holly making the flat white. Reid speaking to him. Hopper watching outside. The support group in the afternoon.
Holly swallowed. “Was there…?”
She didn’t finish, but he understood what she was asking. Was there something from Sanctuary? Had the killer used her shop again?
Reid stepped closer, ready to steady her if she needed it. “Yes. His Sanctuary cup was stuffed in his mouth.”
She gave a little gasp and leaned hard against the doorframe.
He reached for her before he could stop himself. His hand landed on her arm. She looked up into his face, her eyes wet. “Why?” Her voice came out strangled. “Why are they doing this?”
A tear slipped free. He caught it with his thumb. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
She gripped his hand, still on her arm, squeezing hard. “We have to stop them. Now.”
He took her hand in his. “We will,” he said. “I promise.”