6. Grath #3
Maris adjusts the camera. Small. Discreet. Positioned to capture the café entrance.
"It's a brilliant plan. She thinks we're rattled. Thinks I'm desperate to salvage my reputation. So I invite her for coffee. Play the victim. See if she slips."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then we try something else. But Grath, she's arrogant. I saw it at the fundraiser. She thinks she's untouchable."
I cross my arms over my chest, the motion deliberate and defensive. The fabric of my shirt pulls tight across my shoulders, bunching uncomfortably at the seams. I resist the urge to tug at it.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Hide in the back. Listen. If things go wrong, intervene." Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact, as if she's discussing a recipe adjustment rather than potential confrontation.
"Define wrong."
"If she threatens me. Or tries anything physical." She pauses, meeting my gaze. "Anything that feels dangerous."
"And if she just. Sits there and drinks coffee?"
"Then you stay hidden and we get nothing. But at least we tried." She shrugs, one shoulder lifting in a gesture I've come to recognize as forced casualness. "Better than doing nothing."
The logic is sound. I hate it anyway. Hate every part of it that puts her in the same room as someone who's already proven they'll hurt her.
"I don't like you being alone with her."
"I run a café, Grath. I'm alone with strangers all the time." She gestures around the empty space, as if the familiar surroundings make it safer somehow.
"Strangers who aren't actively trying to destroy your life."
She crosses to me then, closing the distance between us with those quick, efficient steps. Puts her hands flat on my chest, fingers splayed against the worn cotton. Looks up at me with those clear, determined eyes.
"I'll be careful. I promise."
"You're asking me to trust you."
"Yes."
"With something dangerous."
"Yes." No hesitation. No apology.
I blow out a breath through my nose, long and frustrated. Feel my chest rise and fall under her palms. "Fine. But I'm listening. And if I hear anything that sounds wrong—anything at all—I'm coming out."
"Deal."
She rises on her toes, stretching up to bridge the height difference between us. Kisses me. Quick and sweet and far too brief.
Then steps back, all business again. The softness vanishes like she's flipped a switch.
"Janelle should be here in twenty minutes. Go. Hide. Try not to break anything while you're brooding back there."
"No promises."
I retreat to the storeroom, moving as quietly as my size allows. The door closes with barely a whisper, and I position myself in the shadows, cracking it just enough to see a sliver of the café beyond. Just enough to hear.
The café is empty except for Pebble. He's claimed the sunniest spot, a patch of afternoon light that turns his gray fur almost silver. Sleeping with his paws tucked under his chin, whiskers twitching occasionally in whatever small dream holds him.
Peaceful. Oblivious to tension and schemes and the dangers that lurk behind polite smiles.
I envy him that simplicity.
Minutes crawl past like hours. My shoulders tense despite my attempts to stay loose, ready. I force myself to breathe slow and measured. Stay calm. Stay focused.
The door chimes, bright and cheerful.
A woman enters. Tall, angular, moving with the kind of precision that speaks of someone who controls every gesture.
Sharp suit in charcoal gray, not a wrinkle in sight.
Hair pulled back so severe it must hurt, every strand disciplined into submission.
She smiles when she sees Maris, but it doesn't reach her eyes—doesn't even try to.
"Maris. Thank you for meeting with me."
"Of course. Coffee?" Maris's voice is warm, welcoming, with just the right hint of uncertainty threading through it.
"Please. Black."
Maris moveswith practiced ease. Her hands are steady as she pours, no tremor in her fingers. Voice stays warm and open, vulnerable in a way I know is calculated.
She's good at this. Better than I'd ever be. I couldn't fake softness when I'm angry. Can't smooth my edges on command.
I watch through the crack, every muscle in my body coiled tight. Ready to move. Ready to protect.
Janelle sits at one of the small tables, crossing her legs with deliberate care. Accepts the coffee mug with both hands. Sips delicately, testing the temperature.
"I heard about the photo. Terrible business."
"Yeah. Really shook me." Maris settles into the chair across from her, shoulders slightly hunched. Playing the part of someone rattled and uncertain.
"I'm sure. People can be so cruel online."
"It's been hard. Worrying about how it affects the café. My reputation." She wraps both hands around her own mug, like she needs the warmth for comfort.
Janelle makes a sympathetic noise, a soft tsk of disapproval. "These things blow over. Usually."
"You think so?"
"Oh yes. Unless. Well. Unless there's more to the story." The words float there, seemingly innocent.
Maris tilts her head, brow furrowing slightly. "More?"
"Sometimes when there's smoke, there's fire. You know?" Janelle's smile widens just a fraction, sharp at the edges.
The words are light. Casual. But the implication lands like a stone.
I tense, hands curling into fists at my sides.
Maris laughs. Soft and self-deprecating. "You mean Grath? He's. A complication. For sure."
"Big guy. Draws attention."
"Too much attention sometimes."
Janelle leans forward. "Between you and me? Men like that. They're trouble. Maybe it's time to cut your losses."
"I've thought about it."
Liar. She's so good at lying I almost believe her myself.
"Smart. No shame in protecting yourself."
Maris sighs. Traces the rim of her mug. "It's just. I believed him. You know? Thought he was different."
"They always seem different at first." Janelle's voice carries the weight of false wisdom, like she's dispensing common sense instead of poison.
"Yeah." Maris lets the single word hang, heavy with manufactured defeat.
A pause stretches between them. Long enough for the sounds of the café to fill the space—the hiss of the espresso machine, the soft clink of ceramic, someone at a far table laughing at something on their phone.
Janelle lifts her mug and sips her coffee with deliberate slowness, watching Maris over the rim like a predator gauging whether its prey is wounded enough.
"If you needed help." She sets the mug down with a quiet click. "Encouraging him to move on. I might know people who could assist with that."
There it is.
The slip.
The crack in the pleasant facade that shows what's underneath, something calculating and cruel, wrapped up in neighborly concern.
My breath catches. Every muscle in my body goes tight, coiled like a spring ready to snap. I want to surge through that door and put myself between Maris and this woman with her soft voice and sharp edges. But I stay frozen, pressed against the wall, listening.
Maris looks up. Her eyes go wide, round with perfectly performed innocence. "Really?"
"Sure." Janelle's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Sometimes a little… pressure. Can motivate someone to make better choices. Help them see reason. Understand that they're not welcome somewhere."
"That's…" Maris pauses, like she's searching for the right word, like she's genuinely touched by this offer. "Kind of you."
"I hate seeing good people suffer because of bad decisions." Janelle spreads her hands in a gesture of false benevolence, as if she's offering charity instead of threats.
Maris nods slowly, her expression solemn. "Me too."
She stands, the movement smooth and unhurried, and reaches for the coffee pot warming on its burner. "Let me top you off."
And as she does, as she leans forward to pour the dark liquid into Janelle's mug, she glances toward the storeroom. Just a flicker. A brief shift of her eyes, so quick most people would miss it.
The signal.
We have her.