Page 8 of Cold Mercy

James cuts in when her voice thins.

“Just help us bring our friend back. That’s all we’re asking.” He hesitates.

“We thought the two of you could help us with the wedding. You mentioned once that you have a few acquaintances in town. Sophia does too. If she agrees, it would make things easier,” he adds.

I try to remember which lie I used that time. Probably something about knowing a guy who knows a guy, which in my life usually means a snitch or a SWAT team ready to kick down the door. I doubt James is hoping for a police raid as his wedding gift.

“And this is going to sound awful, but…you’re her type.” James attempts a nervous chuckle.

They think this is about attraction. Good. A target who desires you is a target who makes mistakes. This isn't a complication. It's an advantage.

“James, for God’s sake,” Elizabeth snaps, eyes wide.

Her type, apparently, is men who look like they can carry a room. That’s fine. I can carry a room, a badge, and a warrant if she likes.

I force a polite smile. “You can count on me. I’ll do whatever I can.”

Elizabeth swipes at the corner of her eye and then looks past me toward the stairs. Her entire demeanor shifts instantly.

“She came,” she whispers.

I turn to see Sophia Moreau walking down the stairs.

She is about five foot seven, maybe five eight at most, tall enough to move through a room without disappearing into it. A long black dress skims her frame, slit high enough to suggest intention without asking permission. Chestnut-brown hair falls almost to her waist. Her skin is pale, untouched by summer or softness.

She stops halfway down and leans in to hug the bouncer like they know each other well. She covers her mouth as she speaks, glances toward our table once, then returns her attention to him without hesitation. That exchange tells me more than any last report did.

“Hey, Eli. Is your wedding the big emergency you couldn’t text about?” she says, finally reaching the table. Her voice sounds stripped of any warmth. A perfect performance of disinterest.

Elizabeth straightens immediately, eyes widening.

“Wait? How do you even know about the wedding? We haven’t talked since-”

Sophie cuts her off without blinking.

“Since Noah died? Yeah. That’s probably the line you were reaching for.”

She drops the dead fiancé card before anyone can even order a drink. It shuts down questions, forces sympathy, and controls the room instantly. She doesn’t miss a fucking beat.

Elizabeth freezes, and James looks lost. But I file it away. Just another confirmation that she’s not as fragile as everyone likes to believe.

“Okay, can we relax? Seriously. I’m not here to torch the mood. I’ve been waiting for you two to finally get married. I will not make it weird, at least not from now.” She rolls her eyes lightly.

Elizabeth lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, and stands to pull her into a hug.

“I’m so happy to see you. How are you holding up?”

Sophia lifts a shoulder.

“Better than yesterday, worse than tomorrow.”

She nods toward James.

“Come on, Jamie. Say hi to your fiancée’s favorite friend.”

He rises, awkward but smiling, and gives her a quick hug.

“Good to see you, Soph,” he mutters.