Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
I stared bleary-eyed at the espresso machine as it poured out the perfect cup of coffee.
Mug+Shots was silent, the Open sign turned off and the chairs still sitting upside down on their respective tables.
The two cooks, Ricardo and Amina, would be coming in through the back door any minute.
Then, we would all get started on opening the cafe.
Despite this not being my normal shift, going in to work added a layer of normalcy to my morning that felt almost surreal. The past few days had been a rollercoaster, and I had a bad feeling it wasn’t going to get easier anytime soon.
The espresso machine finally finished pouring and the smell of coffee permeating through the room began to wake me up.
As I poured half-and-half into the steamer the familiar motions of making an over-the-top coffee for myself in the quiet moments before the rest of the crew came in was comforting.
I’d done this all the time back in Pennsylvania.
The sound of the back door unlocking pulled me out of the cozy haze of nostalgia and into action.
There were only twenty minutes until the cafe was meant to open and while Amina and Ricardo might help, they had the entire kitchen to take care of.
Which meant that the front of house was my responsibility.
I took quick sips of my coffee between pulling chairs down off the tables, setting out the condiments, and opening the register.
I managed to unlock the front door at exactly seven a.m., a sense of satisfaction filling me.
“The open sign,” Amina called from the kitchen door five minutes later and I glanced over, realizing I had completely forgotten to turn it on.
Hurrying over to the remote that we kept in a drawer behind the counter, I flicked the light on.
And then I leaned back against the bar, the familiar setting strange with the lights raised to accommodate morning customers, and waited.
An hour later I had two tables, three booths, and a customer sitting at the bar.
Charlie was a regular, according to Ricardo, and his Denver omelet was ready nearly the moment he sat down.
I had to admit, the duo in the back were good at what they did.
Fast, efficient, and full of helpful pointers when I inevitably missed something important like asking what kind of toast a customer wanted.
The booth at the back was occupied by a pair of customers, one of which I vaguely recognized.
A man with dark hair and pale skin sat across the table from the hair stylist who had been working with another customer when I came in for a cut.
I faintly remembered her name being something that started with an E. Emily? Everly?
“I’m fine, Milo,” she said as I approached, carafe of coffee in hand.
“Keep saying it,” Milo replied, his tone low but tight. He slid his empty mug toward the edge of the table so I could refill it without interrupting. “Doesn’t make it true. You need to go in and request another treatment, Els.”
Ellie. That was it.
“What good will that do?” Ellie snapped. “I was on the other side of the donation list, remember. We both know how this works. When they find a match, they’ll let me know. Pestering the doctors won’t magically help them find someone faster. Besides, I’m not made of glass. Stop worrying about me.”
“It’s literally my job to worry about you,” he said. “That’s what brothers do. I can’t just sit back and watch you wither away. Not when there are other options.”
A flicker of something—fear, maybe, or exhaustion—crossed her face before she masked it with an irritated scoff.
I hurried away, not wanting to intrude on something that raw.
Slipping into the kitchen, I grabbed the two plates waiting for me before heading back out to the floor. Setting them down in front of an older couple, I smiled as they bickered, a much lighter conversation going between them.
“Alonso, would you put that damned phone away and pay attention?” the woman demanded in a no-nonsense tone that I had a feeling she often employed when her husband wouldn’t listen.
“But the game...” Alonso complained, slipping his phone into his lap all the same. I suspected he would continue to check the score of the game on his phone while his wife wasn’t looking, but she seemed satisfied enough that he was listening.
I moved away from the table before I could overhear more of their conversation, not trying to pry into their lives either.
Trick had been right; this job was like looking at the town under a microscope.
Eventually, you got the gossip from everyone.
I went about my business, greeting new customers and making sure everyone was topped up on their coffee.
But as I did, I felt the too-familiar prickling sensation of eyes on me and glanced around, wondering where Kenna had gotten to before it hit me that she probably didn’t know I’d switched shifts with Melody.
She hadn’t been outside my apartment this morning when I left for work, which meant that if she did show up later, she would have no idea where to find me.
I smirked to myself and hummed a little as I worked, happy to shake the sense of being watched now that I knew it wasn’t true.
Exactly two hours and eight minutes later my worst nightmare walked in.
I was halfway through pulling a latte for a mother of three when the bell over the door chimed, the sound blending into the steady morning hum of the café. I glanced up out of habit and felt the blood drain from my face.
ASAC Coal Shepherd wore jeans and a button-down, but the authority he carried was unmistakable.
It radiated from him in a way that had nothing to do with rank and everything to do with certainty.
The man with him exuded a similar, yet less intense energy.
The moment I saw them my hands went cold around the steaming mug.
Shepherd looked right at me.
For one suspended second, I waited for recognition—for the flicker of something in his eyes that would tell me I’d been made. I forced myself not to move like a deer caught in the headlights, waiting to see if the car would hit me or not. I just prayed my camouflage would hold.
His gaze slid past me, dismissive and unseeing, moving on to the specials board, the bar, the exits. The man beside him leaned in to say something, and together they turned toward a table near the windows.
Disbelief hit me so hard it almost knocked the breath from my lungs, but Monica’s voice echoed in my head, calm and knowing, reminding me that people rarely notice what they aren’t expecting to see. To him, I was just another barista behind the counter. Another face that didn’t matter.
My hands shook as I finished the drink, but I kept moving. Muscle memory carried me through wiping down the counter, refilling syrups, repositioning myself close enough to hear without hovering.
The man with Shepherd smiled at me when I approached with menus and silverware—warm, easy, dismissive. Like we’d never crossed paths before. Like he hadn’t been hovering at Lachlan Shepherd’s side earlier in the week, failing to keep a suspect in custody while Lachlan gathered evidence.
Though, nothing about him screamed law enforcement and he had never introduced himself as such. Perhaps he was simply a friend of the family. I’d now seen him with both Shepherds.
The two of them were in the middle of a conversation and completely unconcerned as I poured water into their glasses.
“…should’ve been handled weeks ago,” the man murmured, shaking his head.
Shepherd exhaled sharply. “It wasn’t. And now it’s my problem.”
“So you’re cutting your vacation short.” The blond man said. “Are you sure you can’t put it off until after the Fourth?”
“I don’t have a choice, they said—” He cut himself off as his phone chimed and he glanced at the message before quickly typing out a response and speaking through his teeth. Irritation threaded with urgency. “Dammit. The SAC wants eyes on it immediately.”
The man snorted. The tension between them felt old, layered—the kind that came from history rather than a single disagreement. Definitely a family friend.
Shepherd’s jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”
I didn’t catch the reply, only the scrape of a chair as Shepherd stood. My heart kicked hard at the sound.
“I have to go,” he said. “We’ll talk about this after I have things handled.”
“If you get things handled,” the man muttered. Shepherd didn’t respond.
I watched him cross the room, felt the air shift as he passed by the counter. I waited for him to turn. To really look this time. To see past the apron and coffee stains and the carefully constructed anonymity.
He didn’t.
The bell chimed as the door closed behind him, and only then did I realize my hands were shaking. I gripped the edge of the counter until my nerves eased, relief crashing through me in a way that left me dizzy. He was gone. Leaving. Returning to New York.
Whether that meant I was invisible, or simply that he was too distracted to really notice me in that moment, I didn’t know. But I knew I would never forget the way he’d looked straight through me like I wasn’t there at all.
By the time the man who had come in with Shepherd finally pushed his plate aside, the morning rush had thinned to a manageable trickle.
Sunlight slanted across the floor, catching in the faint dust that lingered in the air.
The other tables had turned over twice, the arguing siblings and the older married couple long gone and replaced by a trio of teenage girls at one booth and a toddler with her parents at another.
I wiped my hands on my apron, grabbed his check, and crossed the room.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I said, setting it down.
“Right.” He reached for his wallet, glancing around with a mild look of embarrassment. “Sorry. I have a habit of lingering.”
“You’re far from our worst offender,” I reassured him.
“You must be new,” he said with a teasing tone, his mouth curving into a faint smile.
“And with that investigative wit it’s no wonder the Shepherds seem to flock to you,” I replied dryly, ringing him up.
“Our families go way back.” He shrugged.
“So you know all their secrets, then,” I said before I could help myself. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice how strange it was for me to fixate on them.
“Hardly,” he laughed and leaned his elbow against the table, relaxed, open. “I take it you’re not from around here?”
“Just moved to town,” I said, glancing over at the table of teenagers to make sure they didn’t need anything while I was making small talk.
A part of me wanted to re-route the conversation back to the Shepherd family, to somehow confirm that I had heard correctly and that Coal Shepherd was leaving town early.
That would be one more weight off my shoulders, at least. But I couldn’t think of a way to bring it up that was natural and the last thing I wanted to do was draw more attention to any connection between myself and the FBI. “Any advice for a newcomer?”
“Happy to share my expertise.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the windows.
“It’s a good place, once you settle in. Big enough to keep the tourists entertained but small enough that you’re bound to run into the same locals fairly often.
Gossip spreads like wildfire around here, and for that matter, so do the wildfires later in the summer.
Don’t let the desert summer fool you, though, it will start raining eventually and when it does make sure to drive carefully. Especially in the round-a-bouts.”
“That’s a lot of good info,” I said. I had found myself nodding along to his comment about seeing the same people fairly often, as that was already happening. “Appreciate the help from a local.”
“No problem,” he said, tucking his receipt into his wallet and standing, “Thank you for the breakfast. And the conversation.”
“It was my pleasure, really,” I said, and found that I meant it.
He slung his jacket over one shoulder, then paused and offered out his hand. “I’m Mason, by the way.”
“Hale,” I replied, shaking his hand. It was calloused but warm, his grip firm.
“Nice to meet you, Hale.” His smile was easy and it reached his eyes, unguarded. It was the kind of smile that made you want to make a joke just to keep it alive.
But it seemed his desire to linger had vanished during our conversation as he drew his hand back and headed for the door, disappearing into the city without a backwards glance.
I watched the door swing shut, then forced myself to turn back to my work. Three more hours, that was all that stood between me and the freedom of having the rest of the day off.
The conversation with Mason had only served to remind me that while Shepherd was hopefully headed back to New York, he was only one of several problems that meant putting down roots in this city wouldn’t do any good if I didn’t clear my name.
Any connections I made with the locals, with people like Mason, would only lead to disaster once they realized who I really was.
Even when everything felt safe and stable, there was still the chance that someone could recognize me from the announcements on the news and tip off the FBI to where I was.
The truth was that the circumstances of my life were ultimately temporary and that wouldn’t change until Monica’s killer had been found.