Chapter 2 Holt
HOLT
Holt had learned a long time ago that the way someone spoke mattered as much as what they said.
June didn’t panic easily. She didn’t ring people with wild theories or dramatic declarations.
June was the kind of woman who walked into a storm, assessed the wind direction, and then told everyone else where to stand so they didn’t get struck by debris.
So when her message came through with only a few words, asking him to meet her urgently at Teacups, Holt felt the warning prickle before he even finished reading it.
There had been something in her voice the night before, too, when they had stood in the hospital corridor and read the note that had been slipped into his pocket.
June had looked at him like she was doing sums in her head, and the answer was one she didn’t like.
He left the station faster than he meant to, ignoring the tightness in his shoulders and the dull pressure behind his eyes from too many hours staring at paper and too few hours sleeping.
He walked quickly, cutting down side streets and slipping between familiar buildings as if the town itself might try to slow him down.
As he moved, his mind did what it always did when he was under pressure. It started cataloguing problems.
One of them was petty, compared to attempted murder, threats, and missing letters, but it still irritated him because it was unnecessary.
He didn’t have a car.
In a town like Sandpiper Shores, not having your own vehicle meant being dependent on other people’s schedules, other people’s favors, and other people’s patience, and Holt had never liked owing anyone anything.
It was ridiculous, too, considering who he was and what he did for a living.
It wasn't as though he couldn't afford a rental.
He simply hadn't taken care of it yet because the case had swallowed every spare second he had.
He made a mental note, as he strode toward Teacups, to ask his mother where his late uncle’s old Lincoln had gone.
The car was older than most of the furniture in the police station, and the dashboard still looked like it belonged in a museum, but Holt remembered it as reliable.
It also had personality, which was more than could be said for half the vehicles he had driven in the last decade.
His uncle had always talked about that Lincoln the way other men talked about their dogs. He had even given it a name, which Holt had found amusing at the time, and now, with his life reduced to borrowed rides and shared cars, he found himself thinking about that name again.
Old Link.
His uncle used to joke that the car was smarter than most people because it always started when it was supposed to, and it never lied.
Holt snorted under his breath at the memory, then sobered as he reached Teacups and the bell over the door chimed.
The coffee shop and bakery was warm with the scent of coffee, pastry, and sugar. It should have been comforting. It should have been ordinary. Instead, Holt felt as if he were stepping into a place where anything could happen because lately, anything had.
His eyes swept the room automatically, picking out exits, sight lines, faces he recognized, and faces he didn't. Teacups was busy, but not crowded.
People sat in pairs and small groups, talking quietly and sipping coffee or eating.
A few tourists were clustered around the display case, arguing over what counted as breakfast and what as dessert.
June had chosen the most secluded table at the very back, tucked into the corner where the wall met the window and the light fell soft and golden across the booth. It was the table people chose when they didn't want to be overheard.
When she saw him, she lifted her hand in a small wave.
Relief loosened something in his chest, because whatever she needed to show him, at least she was here and upright and not calling from a hospital corridor.
He started toward her.
He didn't make it two steps before someone moved into his path with the confidence of a person who believed the world existed to accommodate them.
Before Holt could shift, before he could raise a hand to stop the intrusion, lips pressed against his cheek.
“Holt, darling,” Victoria Morrison drawled.
Holt froze.
It wasn't the kiss itself that made his body go rigid. It was the entitlement in it, the deliberate intimacy of it in public, the way she stayed too close as if she had a right to his space.
He took a quick step back, then another, putting distance between them.
Victoria smiled as if he hadn't moved at all.
“You haven't responded to my message,” she said, pouting, her voice pitched just loud enough for him to hear and just soft enough for anyone else to pretend they hadn't. “I sent it yesterday about when you could come to my house for dinner. Remember, we discussed this a few days ago.”
Holt’s brow furrowed. He stared at her, trying to place the conversation she was referring to, and found only empty air.
“I don't remember agreeing to that,” he said flatly.
Victoria’s smile didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened, like a knife that had been polished.
“Oh, you were probably distracted with those brats ogling you,” Victoria said, waving a hand as if that explained everything. “You have so much on your mind. That’s why I'm being kind and reminding you. How about tomorrow night?”
“I'm working on an important case,” Holt replied, keeping his voice controlled. He didn't glance toward June. He refused to give Victoria the satisfaction of seeing him react to the fact that June was watching. “I don't have time for dinner.”
For a heartbeat, Victoria’s shoulders stiffened, and Holt caught the flash of anger in her eyes. It was there and gone so quickly that most people would have missed it. Holt didn't.
“Well,” Victoria said, and the sweetness returned with unnatural speed, “think about it and let me know.”
She tilted her head, eyes scanning him as if she were measuring how much pressure to apply. Then she smiled wider. “Are you here for breakfast?” she asked. “I have some time. I can join you.”
“No, thank you,” Holt said. “I'm already meeting someone.”
Victoria’s brows lifted, exaggerated surprise painted onto her face as though she were playing a role she knew by heart.
“Oh?” she said. “Maybe I could join you both then.”
Holt felt irritation spike hot and sharp.
“I'm afraid not,” he replied, and this time his tone left no room for negotiation. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m running a bit late.”
“Okay then,” Victoria said, and there it was again, the anger that tried to claw through her smile. She swallowed it down with visible effort, which only confirmed to Holt that it was real. “Let me know about dinner.”
She leaned in again before he could stop her, and kissed his cheek with deliberate slowness, her mouth lingering longer than it should.
“Just so you know, I won't take no for an answer,” Victoria whispered in his ear, and Holt felt his stomach turn because the words weren't playful. They were a warning wrapped in perfume. “You won't be disappointed. My new French chef makes the best meals.”
Then she stepped back, turned as if she owned the entire room, and walked out of Teacups.
Holt stood still for a moment, jaw tight, resisting the urge to wipe his cheek. He didn't do it. He refused to let Victoria make him look flustered, not here, not in front of June, and not in front of anyone who might be watching.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, then turned.
June was sitting in the back booth, one brow raised, her expression calm in that way that always made Holt feel as if she could see straight through him. She was watching him with a look that was half amusement and half assessment.
Holt headed toward her, feeling the irritation simmer under his skin as he slid into the booth across from her.
For a second, June said nothing. She just looked at him, eyes flicking briefly to the door Victoria had used and then back again, as if filing the moment away for later.
Then she spoke, voice innocent. “Your girlfriend giving you trouble?”
Holt let out a breath that was more of a sigh than a laugh.
“She isn't my girlfriend,” he said, and he heard how clipped his own voice sounded.
He forced himself to smooth it out because June had explicitly told him she hated clipped speech.
It wasn't about writing only. It was about the way tension made people talk.
“She is trying to insist I have dinner with her.”
June’s eyes widened slightly. Something passed through them, too fast for Holt to catch properly, and then it was gone.
“Maybe you should go,” June said.
Holt stared at her.
The words hit him in a place he hadn't expected. Not because he wanted to go to dinner with Victoria. He didn't. The thought made his skin crawl. What struck him was the speed of June’s response, the lack of hesitation, and the fact that she sounded like she meant it.
His heart clenched before he could stop it.
“What?” he spluttered, then immediately regretted the reaction. He didn't want June to see how much her words had stung. “No.”
June didn't blink. “Holt,” she said quietly, leaning forward. Her voice softened, and Holt’s pulse thudded hard because her scent reached him, familiar and maddeningly normal in the middle of all this chaos. “If you get close to her, you could find out if she is behind what’s happening with Lacey.”
Holt swallowed.
His mind immediately tried to shift into professional mode, into analysis and strategy, because if he let himself sit in the personal sting of June encouraging him to dine with another woman, he would be useless. He hadn't come here to be useless.