Page 3 of Shadow Justice

He snatched it up, muttered something about customer service, and stalked toward the door. Every customer in line gave him a chastising look. The bell jangled hard behind him.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Maya exhaled through her teeth and said, “I hope he has the day he deserves.”

The shop laughed, and the morning rush found its rhythm again.

Allen waited until the line had moved before he approached the counter. “You handled that well.”

“I handled it before you turned it into a closing argument.”

His smile was small and kind. “Occupational hazard.”

“Former occupation.”

He gave a small smile and shrug. “Some habits are harder to retire than others.”

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.”