Page 17 of Catching Flynn

Pulling out his phone, Zavier called Colton.

He answered on the third ring. “What’s up?”

“New note on the bookstore door.” Zavier kept his voice level. “Bagged it without touching the paper. Need a contact at the station to run it for prints.”

On the other end, traffic hissed faintly and then a turn signal clicked twice. “I’m on my way to the bookstore now,” Colton said. “Call Sheriff Owen. I’ll text you the direct line.”

“Got it.”

After hanging up, Zavier called the number as soon as the text came through. Owen answered with the tired voice of a man already having a long day. Zavier gave him the essentials, kept it concise, and got confirmation someone would meet them or take custody of the bagged note within the hour.

They were suddenly taking this seriously after Zavier gave his credentials.

When he ended the call, Flynn was staring at the evidence bag like it might start talking.

“I need coffee. Lots of coffee,” Flynn muttered.

“You’re leaving with me.”

A humorless smile twitched across his mate’s mouth then vanished. “Good. Because I was one weird sound away from climbing into the return bin and living there.”

Zavier took another sweep through the store, slower this time. He checked the alley-side window at the back, the warped frame near the storeroom, the rear exit, and the trash area outside. Sunlight hit hard when he stepped into the alley, and the smell back there was wet cardboard, old coffee grounds, and the metallic tang of the dumpster heating up. Nothing looked disturbed. No fresh scuffs near the rear door. No loiterers. A gull cried somewhere sharply overhead.

He circled the building once, scanning parked cars, doorways, and the bakery next door. A woman with a stroller moved along the opposite sidewalk. An old man carried a paper sack out of the pharmacy. Nobody watched too closely, but that meant very little. Perps learned camouflage fast.

When he came back inside, Flynn was exactly where he’d left him, though now he had one hand pressed to the side of his neck, grounding himself.

“We’re going to get your coffee,” Zavier said.

Flynn blinked up at him. “That sounded like witness protection.”

“Come on.”

Hash It Out sat a few blocks over. Inside, the air smelled of bacon, maple syrup, buttered toast, and the rich aroma of brewing coffee. Dishes clinked in the kitchen. A waiter laughed somewhere near the counter. The low hum of conversation and the hiss from the grill settled around Zavier’s shoulders.

Zack spotted them first.

He came around a booth with a coffee pot in one hand and a pen tucked behind his ear, eyes bright despite the breakfast-rush beginning to build. “Hey, guys. Need caffeine?”

His smile faded a notch when he glanced closer at Flynn. He jerked his chin toward the back. “Booth’s open over there. It’s my section.”

They slid into the booth, the vinyl squeaking under Zavier’s weight. Flynn reached for the menu even though his hands still were not fully steady.

Zack set down two waters and a pair of laminated menus. “Here’s your coffee.”

While he poured, Zavier looked over the menu without seeing much of it. Eggs. Hash browns. Biscuits. Pancakes. He was more aware of Flynn beside him, of the brittle quiet that had replaced his usual chatter.

Flynn traced a fingertip under a menu item, then another. “I think I’ll have pancakes.”

Zavier folded his menu closed. “Sounds good, kitten.”

Less than fifteen seconds later, Zack reappeared with a pad. “Ready.”

Flynn looked up, managed a faint ghost of himself, and said, “Coffee. A lot of it. And pancakes. Thanks.”

Zack scribbled. The pen scratched over paper. “Got it.”

Zavier handed over his menu. “Eggs over medium. Bacon. Hash browns. Rye toast.”