Page 19 of Shadow

Was at the courthouse when Martha Lintz died.

Had apparently tried to stop the murder.

So, reckless. Or maybe heroic.

Or maybe…the mole who had tipped off the transfer.

Daphne studied the photo, memorizing every detail. The slight scar through his left eyebrow. The set of his jaw. Beard. The way his eyes looked straight at the camera.

She zoomed in, looking for tells. Microexpressions.

Nothing obvious.

Which proved exactly nothing.

Three stools down, closer to the door, a man hunched over his own coffee. He wore jeans and a dark Henley, broad shoulders, built. A man who looked like he could handle himself by the way his hand gripped the coffee cup. He wore work boots, his leather jacket hanging off the back of his chair. He hadn’t shaved this morning, the slightest raze of dark whiskers on his jaw. He was reading his phone, scrolling.

Local, probably. Ranch hand or construction worker. Up early for a shift.

Not her concern.

She closed the file and took another sip of coffee, letting it burn all the way down. Fifteen years since she’d been inside a Renegade establishment. Fifteen years since she’d sat at a counter like this one, waiting for breakfast.

Officer Daniel Cross used to bring her here on Saturday mornings after he got off his shift. Pancakes with chocolate chips, and hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. Her father drinking coffee—black, three sugars—telling her about his week. Making her laugh.

Before everything.

Focus.

Daphne pulled up a map on her phone and started marking potential safe house locations. Rural properties off the main roads. Places without nosy neighbors. With Renegade growing as it had, it shouldn’t be hard to find a place to lay low.

“More coffee?” Millie materialized with the pot in front of the man down the row.

He nodded without looking up.

Millie refilled his cup. “How you doing this morning, Asher?”

He set down his phone. “Good.”

“You shaved the beard.”

He ran a hand across his face. “Scratchy.”

“Makes you look ten years younger.”

He laughed, and it was wry, a low chuckle that was almost a growl. “I wish my bones would agree.”

She patted his arms and moved on to Daphne. Refilled her cup. “Your food’ll be right up, honey.”

Daphne had frozen.

Asher.

The freshly shaved man three stools down was Morrison.

FBI Agent Asher Morrison.

No wonder she didn’t recognize him.