Chapter 1 #2
Before he’d become a victim advocate, Allen had been one of the best prosecutors in the county.
Holly had been told that by more than one person, usually in reverent tones, as if he’d once slain dragons between arraignments.
She’d only known him after he left the DA’s office, when he started working with victims and families who were trying to survive the legal system without being swallowed whole by it.
To her, he’d always been the man who knew who to call when no one else would return her messages.
When Sanctuary had still been dust and exposed wiring, a health inspector named Carl Whitmer had made Holly’s life miserable. Surprise inspections, petty citations, delayed approvals, and comments that left a greasy feeling on her skin.
At first, she’d thought she was overreacting because people like Carl were good at making their targets feel unreasonable for noticing the blade under the smile.
Then Allen had stopped by one afternoon, found her sitting on an overturned paint bucket with a stack of violation notices in her lap, and listened.
He hadn’t made her feel dramatic. He’d had her make copies.
Two weeks later, Carl Whitmer was no longer assigned to her project, and six weeks after that, Sanctuary Coffee opened with a temporary certificate on the wall, a line out the door, and Holly crying in the storage room with relief-laced joy.
“I appreciate it,” she said, softening.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the door. “If he continues to be a problem, document it.”
“I document everything. You trained me, remember?”
“That may be the finest legacy I leave behind.” He tapped two fingers on the counter and stepped back. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“You want a refill before you go?”
“Not today. I have a meeting with the county attorney’s office in twenty minutes.” He gave a mock salute. “See ya, kiddo.”
He returned to his table to gather his coat.
Holly shook off the lingering discomfort from Hoyt’s performance and finished the rush.
By eight-thirty, the line had thinned, the pastry case had the picked-over look of a successful morning, and the front windows had fogged slightly at the edges from the warmth inside meeting the wet chill outside.
She checked the tablet again. Blue had solved the puzzle feeder and was lying with his chin on it in triumph, looking bored with his own genius.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she told the screen. “Some of us have jobs.”
The bell rang, and this time the woman who walked in made Holly smile for real.
Roni Fleming blew through the door in a purple rain jacket, black leggings, and muddy boots.
Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun and a streak of something suspiciously like peanut butter on one sleeve.
She looked as if she’d already survived a war, which probably meant the eight o’clock puppy manners class had been exactly that.
“Before you judge me,” she said, pointing at Holly, “I want you to know that a golden retriever named Pancake discovered pockets today.”
Holly reached for a cup. “How many treats did he get?”
“All of them.” Roni sighed dramatically and leaned over the counter to peer at the tablet. “How’s my goddog?”
“He’s contemplating the futility of puzzles once solved.”
Roni sighed. “Gifted children are such a burden.”
“Good thing we love him.”
“I wish I could take him today, but I’ve got to study between trainings.
He would have been good at helping this morning.
A terrier mix tried to unionize the small-dog group, Pancake committed grand theft liver treats, and a poodle named Susan refused to walk over a blue mat because, according to her owner, she didn’t care for its energy. So, a normal day.”
“I thought Susan was making progress.”
“Susan is. Her owner, not so much.”
Maya slid a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls into the display case, and Roni made an appreciative sound. “Also, I’m starving. Give me one of those and whatever coffee will keep me from lying down in the agility tunnel until noon.”
“That would be our house dark roast with a shot of espresso and a written apology to your adrenal glands.”
“Perfect.”
Holly poured the coffee while Roni wandered to the pickup counter and stole a broken corner of cinnamon roll from the sample plate.
Roni had been part of Sanctuary before it was Sanctuary, before the sign went up, before the paint dried, before Holly had stopped waking at three in the morning with financial panic trying to claw its way out of her chest.
Roni had scrubbed floors, hauled chairs, argued about menu fonts, and once stood in the middle of the dining room holding two pendant lights over her head while Holly decided which one made the brick wall look warmer.
She was the sister Holly’d never had. Roni had a way of claiming people and then behaving as if the matter had been settled by court order.
She’d claimed Holly in high school, when Holly’s mother had been between jobs, boyfriends, and apartments, and Holly had been too proud and too tired to admit that sometimes she didn’t know where she belonged.
Roni had dragged her to the Fleming house for dinner, homework, movie nights, birthdays, snow days, bad days, and random Wednesdays when she claimed her grandmother had cooked too much and needed help with leftovers.
Holly had known better, but she’d gone anyway.
She’d envied the Flemings then, even after understanding the grief stitched through their family.
Reid and Roni had lost their parents young and been raised by their grandparents, but their house had still felt solid in a way Holly’s never had.
There were framed photos on the walls, a table big enough for arguments and dessert, a grandmother who asked if you’d eaten, and Judge Fleming reading the newspaper in his chair like the world might misbehave but order would eventually be restored.
Holly’s childhood had been a series of temporary addresses, late notices, overheard arguments, and adults who loved her in unreliable bursts.
She’d learned early that nothing stayed steady just because you needed it to.
The Fleming house had been the first place where she could set down her backpack and believe it might still be there when she came back.
It was why Roni still dropped by with dinner invitations, spare keys, extra dog treats, and a stubborn determination to not let Holly drift into her apartment above the shop and call loneliness independence.
Roni accepted the coffee Holly handed her and took a sip. “Marry me.”
“You already proposed last week when I gave you the maple scone.”
“The offer still stands.” Roni reached for her cinnamon roll bag.
She was studying to get a real estate license.
Not to replace the doggy daycare, but to supplement it.
“Let’s hit Fredo’s for dinner soon. I need pasta, and you need to leave this building for reasons unrelated to Blue’s digestive schedule. ”
Holly wiped the counter. “I leave the building.”
“Walking your dog to the park while mentally calculating payroll does not count.”
“It counts to Blue.”
“Blue also thinks barking at the vacuum counts as civic engagement.” Roni pointed the cinnamon roll at her. “Fredo’s. Seven on Sunday. Unless you have a date with Collin?”
Holly rolled her eyes. “Collin is not my type.”
Roni snorted. “No one’s your type.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really? Because in the past six months alone, you’ve rejected Collin, who is gainfully employed and has all his original teeth; Tristan, who owns a cabin and makes his own pasta; and Matt, who was admittedly too into triathlons but has excellent shoulders.”
“Matt referred to his bicycle as his truth and said coffee was a crutch.”
Roni winced. “I forgot that part. In my defense, his shoulders were very persuasive.”
“Your matchmaking criteria need work.”
“My matchmaking criteria are simple. Is he kind? Is he single? Does he seem unlikely to store bodies in a crawl space? If yes, I consider him viable.”
“Comforting.”
“And yet you reject them all.”
“I like my life the way it is.”
Roni’s expression softened. “I know you do. I also know your life has a bad habit of becoming work, Blue, sleep, repeat.”
“That’s not fair. Sometimes I have laundry.”
“Be still my heart.”
Holly busied herself rinsing a pitcher that didn’t need rinsing. “Dinner sounds good.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I can drive.”
“You can, but then you’ll claim an emergency with inventory and bail. I know your tricks.”
“I have never once used inventory as an excuse.”
“Holly.”
“Fine. Twice. But both times we were low on oat milk, which is basically a municipal crisis.”
Roni grinned, triumphant. “Seven on Sunday.”
Holly shook her head but smiled despite herself. “I’m counting down the minutes.”
Roni took another sip of coffee and glanced around the shop. “By the way, Granddad asked if you’re still making those lemon scones.”
“I am.”
“Good. Reid ate two yesterday and pretended he wasn’t impressed.”
The pitcher slipped in Holly’s hand and clinked against the edge of the sink.
Roni had the observational skills of a herding dog. “Whoa, there. You okay?”
“Fine.” Holly set the pitcher in the drying rack and reached for a towel. “Your brother never admitted liking anything that wasn’t black coffee, steak, or a legal argument.”
“He’s expanded. He now also likes pretending he doesn’t like my dogs. He came by the daycare yesterday and sat on the floor with a Great Dane puppy in his lap for twenty minutes. A man that size should not be able to look that pathetic, but here we are.”
Holly pictured it before she could stop herself. Reid Fleming, tall, dark, and serious, sitting on the floor while some enormous puppy melted against him. Her mind had always been traitorous where Reid was concerned. It kept old memories in unlocked rooms.
His hand on the small of her back. His mouth against hers in the dark. His voice, rough and careful, saying her name as if it mattered.
The morning after, when he was already gone.