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.
CHAPTER 7
MARIS
The café locks for the afternoon, and I am in the main room with Grath, staring at the pile of supplies I've assembled. Dark hoodies. Baseball caps. A pair of sunglasses with lenses so big they could double as dinner plates.
"This is what spies wear?" Grath picks up one of the hoodies, holding it between thumb and forefinger like it might bite.
"We're not spies. We're concerned citizens conducting surveillance."
