Page 33 of Shadow Justice

“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.