Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Sanctuary Coffee, before opening, was quiet and had its own chain of command—mostly made up of Holly.
She controlled the espresso machine, the pastry case, the register, the music, and the angle of the chalkboard sign by the door.
Reid had learned quickly that helping meant paying attention, not taking initiative that hadn’t been invited.
There were beans he wasn’t supposed to touch, milks arranged according to use, a towel system he didn’t fully understand, and a row of mismatched mugs that Holly had assigned to certain customers.
He could respect that. He’d worked with admirals who were equally particular about battlefield logistics.
Blue had left with Roni fifteen minutes ago, vibrating with joy as if daycare were a diplomatic mission only he could handle.
Roni had looked between Reid and Holly again before she’d gone, still too interested for his comfort, but she hadn’t pressed.
That restraint wouldn’t last. His sister had been born with a talent for inserting herself into other people’s emotional lives and calling it family support.
As predicted, his phone buzzed with a text from her. Details needed. Soon.
Behind the counter, Holly measured, wiped, checked, adjusted, and glanced up at the front windows every few minutes. Morning light touched Main Street, turning the sidewalk pale gold. The storm had left the air clean and cool, with a thin glaze of moisture on patio chairs.
Reid restocked lids and cup sleeves, then checked the sugar canisters without asking.
He’d made that mistake once yesterday, waiting for direction when the empty canister had been right in front of him.
Holly hadn’t said anything, but he’d seen the silent assessment in the way she’d reached past him and replaced it herself.
He wasn’t making that mistake twice.
“You’re improving,” she said as she passed him with a tray of muffins.
“I’ve been promoted to cup-sleeve competence.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I’ll try to remain humble.”
Her mouth curved faintly before she turned toward the pastry case.
Reid had started measuring progress in the smallest increments—fewer sharp edges in her answers, less visible tension when he came close to hand her a stack of napkins or take an empty tray.
She still watched him guardedly, but she didn’t seem to be bracing for impact every time he moved.
The first half hour went smoothly. A nurse came in for two large coffees and a cranberry muffin.
A city maintenance worker ordered black coffee and a breakfast sandwich.
Three women in running clothes bought lattes and stood near the window debating whether to stretch or pretend they had.
Holly knew all of them by name. Reid did what he could without getting in the way.
He called names from pickup orders, cleared the tables, and learned that the man who asked for “the usual” at six-thirty wanted a medium dark roast with a splash of half-and-half, no lid because he hated “drinking through plastic like a toddler.” Holly knew that already, of course.
While Reid knew threat patterns and legal process. Holly knew people.
The door opened, and the mood behind the counter changed before the customer fully stepped inside.
Holly’s shoulders settled into a polite version of armor. Not fear—irritation, resignation, and practiced patience.
Hoyt Sullivan crossed the threshold in a camel-colored coat and expensive boots that had never met honest mud.
Reid recognized him, though it took a second to place him.
He was older now and heavier through the jaw, but had the same superior tilt to his chin.
Hoyt had been a few years ahead of Reid in school and had grown into exactly the kind of man teenage Hoyt had promised to become—entitled, polished, and certain the world existed to inconvenience him.
He came to the counter without looking at the menu. “Flat white. Extra hot. I’m in a hurry.”
Holly’s voice stayed pleasant. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” he said, though the word sounded like an obligation he resented.
Reid stepped to the side of the register with a sleeve of cups in his hand. “Hoyt Sullivan. Are you terrifying innocent coffee shops before eight these days?”
Holly, who’d already pulled out a paper to-go cup for his drink, paused. One eyebrow quirked at Reid.
Hoyt turned, irritation ready, then frowned. Recognition took a beat, and his face rearranged itself into something closer to civility. “Reid Fleming. Didn’t know you were back in town.”
“Recently.”
“Your grandfather still over on Alder?”
“He is.”
Hoyt glanced at Holly, then back at Reid. The shift was subtle but immediate. His stiff posture eased. His tone lost some of its edge. “Good man, Judge Fleming. Tough, but fair.”
“He’d appreciate you saying that.”
Holly set the cup beneath the machine.
Hoyt cleared his throat. “No rush on the coffee.”
Holly glanced up. “I’ll have it ready in just a minute.”
“Thanks.”
The thanks sounded slightly rusty, as if Hoyt didn’t use it often enough to maintain fluency.
Reid kept his expression neutral and looked toward the front windows while Holly finished the drink.
A man stood just outside the patio gate, broad shoulders filling out a dark canvas jacket, both hands tucked in his pockets.
His beard was thick and hung down to his collarbone.
His skin was weathered. He wasn’t staring at Holly exactly. His attention moved from Hoyt to Reid.
When Reid’s eyes met his through the window, the man hurriedly looked away, and he continued down the sidewalk.
Hoyt took his coffee, left two dollars in the tip jar, and gave Holly a nod. “Have a good morning.”
“You, too, Hoyt,” Holly said.
The door chimed behind him, and for a few seconds, Sanctuary returned to the hum of low conversation.
Reid didn’t comment. Holly didn’t either. He’d learned enough about her pride to know she wouldn’t thank him for handling Hoyt, and he hadn’t done it for gratitude. He’d done it because Hoyt needed to be reminded that Holly wasn’t a subordinate he could boss around.
A man at a corner table rose after Hoyt left, carrying a ceramic mug toward the counter. Holly had waited on him earlier while Reid unloaded the dishwasher in the back. He was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, neatly dressed, with silver threading through dark hair and a trimmed beard.
The man set his mug on the counter as he gave Reid a courteous smile. “I thought I recognized you. You’re Judge Fleming’s grandson. Reid, yes?”
“That’s right.”
He extended his hand. His grip was firm but not performative. “Allen Davies.”
Reid shook it. “Good to meet you.”
“Your grandfather believed in the letter of the law.”
The words were mild. Maybe even respectful if Reid hadn’t spent years listening for what people folded beneath polished phrasing. Allen’s tone didn’t accuse, but it carried weight around the edges, a faint pressure that made Reid look at him more carefully.
“He still does,” Reid said.
Allen’s smile didn’t change. “Principled men rarely stop being principled. Whether the rest of the world appreciates it is another question.”
Holly came up beside Reid with a coffee pot in her hand. “Allen, can I warm that up for you?”
“If you don’t mind.” He passed her the mug. “Busy morning.”
“That’s a good thing,” she said with a smile. “Keeps the lights on.”
His return smile was warm. His gaze moved to Reid again. “Good to have extra help, I’m sure. Blackridge has a way of pulling people back when they’re needed.” Allen accepted the refilled mug from Holly. “Thank you, Holly.”
“Of course.”
He returned to his table, leaving Reid with the odd impression of a door that had opened an inch and closed before he could see the room beyond it.
The line grew, and Sanctuary’s morning rhythm took over.
Reid wiped, stocked, carried, and watched.
He looked for the big man in the canvas jacket but didn’t see him again.
Hoyt didn’t return. Allen finished his coffee, spoke briefly with Holly about an afternoon meeting, and left a generous tip beneath his mug.
After the rush thinned, Holly leaned back against the counter and drank half a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. “You handled Hoyt well,” she said.
Reid loaded mugs into the dishwasher. “I knew him a little in high school.”
“That’s the politest he’s been since I opened.”
“Does his family still own Sullivan Ridge Development?”
“They do.” Holly set her cup aside. “He’s now running it. He comes in a few times a week. He likes things a certain way.”
“That’s a generous way to put it.”
“It’s code for ‘rude.’”
“Rude can be code for dangerous if it’s unchecked.”
She stared at him for a long moment, as if reframing Hoyt in her mind. “I’ve dealt with worse than Hoyt Sullivan.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
A small sigh escaped her. “He complains and makes snide comments. Sometimes he acts like waiting three minutes for coffee is a human rights violation. He’s unpleasant, but unlikely to be the man the FBI is looking for. I can’t imagine him getting his hands dirty.”
Reid nodded and closed the dishwasher. He trusted her read of the man’s impact on her. He didn’t trust the world to leave unpleasant men in the category where they belonged.
“And Allen?” he asked.
She glanced toward the corner table Allen had used earlier.
“What about him? He was a prosecutor up to a few years ago. He and your grandfather must have crossed paths. Allen doesn’t talk much about his prosecutor days.
He’s a victim advocate now.” She rinsed her cup and set it in the rack.
“He helps people navigate the system after crimes, court hearings, all of that. The group meets here this afternoon.”
“A support group?”
“Yes.”
“You trust him.”
“I do.” She didn’t hesitate. “He helped me when I needed someone who understood the system.”
“I’m glad he was here to help you.”