Page 1 of Shadow Justice

CHAPTER ONE

Blackridge, Montana

The best part of the morning rush for Holly at Sanctuary Coffee was the moment when the whole place found its rhythm.

It usually happened around seven-forty, once the first wave of courthouse employees had collected their caffeine and the teachers from Blackridge Elementary had stopped pretending they were only ordering one espresso shot.

The front door kept swinging open and closed, letting in bursts of early spring air scented with rain on pavement and the faint sweetness of the dogwood trees blooming along Main Street. The espresso machine hissed. The grinder growled. Indie folk music floated through the speakers, soft enough not to compete with conversation but steady enough to make the shop feel awake.

Behind the counter, Holly Bristol moved through it all by memory and instinct.

“Large black coffee, no room, and a blueberry scone for Judge Madsen,” she called, sliding the cup and white paper bag across the counter to the retired judge.

His bushy eyebrows dipped. “You trying to make an old man predictable?”

“No, sir.” She winked at him. “You did that all by yourself.”

He gave her the stern look that had probably terrified witnesses for forty years, but his mouth twitched. “Fair enough.”

“Tell Mrs. Madsen I have her lemon bars boxed and waiting.”

“She’s off shopping with her sister. She sent me here with a note to pick them up,” he said, patting the front pocket of his windbreaker. “I had every intention of pretending I remembered on my own.”

Holly smiled and reached for the box, setting it on the counter with his order. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Most secrets were inside Sanctuary.

Holly had chosen the name before she had the money, the building, or anything except a notebook full of drink recipes and the kind of stubborn hope common sense should have strangled but hadn’t.

Sanctuary Coffee wasn’t catchy, and she knew it. Her best friend Roni had suggested half a dozen alternatives involving beans, brews, and one truly unfortunate pun about “grounds for happiness,” but Holly hadn’t been able to let go of the word sanctuary.

A place to breathe, to belong. A place where the lights were warm, the chairs didn’t match, and nobody had to earn the right to sit quietly with a cup of coffee and still feel supported and safe.

She’d built the place one patched wall, one borrowed dollar, and one exhausted late night at a time. Now the old brick storefront on the corner of Main and Laurel belonged to her in all the ways that mattered, even if the bank still owned enough of it to send monthly love letters with interest rates.

The front windows were tall and arched, framed by trailing ivy she hadn’t killed yet, which she considered a personal triumph. Local art covered one wall. A community board covered another. The scarred wooden tables had come from auctions, estate sales, and one church basement that had smelled like mothballs, lemon cleaner, and old hymnals. No two chairs were exactly alike, which made the shop look as if it had gathered furniture the same way it gathered people—slowly, gently, and with room for the dented parts.

“Holly?” Maya, her morning barista, lifted two cups and squinted at the handwriting. “Is this oat milk for Bethany or regular for Britany? I’m begging every mother in this town to stop naming their daughters with the same seven letters.”

“Oat milk for Bethany. Britany gets vanilla and regular milk because she says oat milk tastes like wet cardboard.”

Maya snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

Holly capped Judge Madsen’s coffee and glanced at the small tablet mounted near the pastry case. The screen showed her apartment above the shop, where Sweet Blue was sprawled on the rug in front of the couch with a puzzle feeder between his paws. The dog’s speckled blue-gray ears twitched every few seconds, and one sharp brown eye watched the toy as if it might paw him back.

“Still plotting?” Maya asked.

Holly chuckled. “He’s deciding whether to solve the puzzle or file a complaint with management.”

“Blue is management.”

“Don’t say that where he can hear you. He’ll expect dental.”

Sweet Blue wasn’t allowed in the café, no matter how many customers claimed they wouldn’t mind. Holly had fought too hard through permits, inspections, occupancy limits, and the petty tyranny of one former health inspector to risk everything because her dog had excellent cheekbones and a fan club. Blue lived upstairs with her and had a stockpile of toys, a camera, and more opinions than any creature without thumbs deserved. He got long walks before opening, in the afternoon if the weather cooperated, and regular trips to Roni’s doggy daycare whenever Holly had a long day.

Officially, he was Holly’s dog. Unofficially, he was the reason she didn’t work herself into a fossilized lump of espresso grounds and anxiety.

The bell over the door jingled again, and Holly looked up automatically. Her smile was already in place, and she offered it to customers she knew and those she didn’t, on bad days and good ones. It was a staple for people who needed caffeine, kindness, or both. Most mornings, she could tell which one before they reached the counter.