Page 7 of Shadow Justice

She looked out the windows. A woman hurried by under a red umbrella and a delivery truck idled at the curb across the street. The patio was empty, rain darkening the tabletops and string lights swaying in the wind.

Holly slid the card into her apron pocket. She checked the camera upstairs. Blue was standing now, ears forward, body angled toward the apartment door. Her breath caught, and she switched the view to the exterior security camera over it.

Nothing. The hall was empty.

She released a sigh, not sure why she was suddenly on edge. She went back to Blue and flicked on the audio. “You’re okay, buddy. False alarm. Aunt Roni sends you a kiss.” She blew one into the camera.

Blue’s ears flicked at her voice. He huffed, circled once, and lay down with his head still pointed toward the door.

She took a breath, pulled the card from her pocket, wrote the date and time on the front, then tucked it back in her pocket.

The bell over the door chimed.

Holly looked up, smile ready, and found two strangers stepping inside. The man was mid-forties with close-cropped hair and a charcoal coat soaked with rain. He lowered an umbrella, closing it and leaning it against the wall. The woman with him wore dark slacks, a navy blazer, and practical low heels. She tugged a wet lock of hair off her cheek.

They paused just inside the door, scanning the room. Holly’s smile faded before she could stop it.

The woman approached the counter and drew a slim leather wallet from inside her blazer. “Holly Bristol?”

“Yes.”

She opened the wallet. “Special Agent Claire Dawson, FBI. This is Special Agent Emmet Cahors. We’d like to speak with you privately.”

Holly studied the badges. She wouldn’t know a real from a fake, so she memorized their badge numbers in case she needed to follow up later. “Is something wrong?”

Agent Dawson’s expression didn’t change. She glanced at the windows. “As I said, we’d prefer to discuss it somewhere private.”

Holly’s skin prickled beneath her sweater. She led them through the swinging door and into her small office tucked behind the kitchen. It was barely large enough for a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and the number of sticky notes required to keep a small business from collapsing into chaos. She could still hear the bell if someone walked in.

The walls were painted a soft green. A framed copy of her first dollar hung beside her business license. On the shelf above the desk sat a photo of Holly and Roni on opening day, both of them exhausted and grinning, their arms around each other and flour on Roni’s cheek.

Holly stayed standing. “What’s this about?”

Dawson and Cahors exchanged a brief look. “We’re investigating a series of crimes that may have a connection to your business,” Dawson said.

“Crimes?” Holly repeated.

Cahors nodded. “We have reason to believe several victims were customers.”

Her chest felt suddenly tight. “Victims of what?”

Dawson gestured toward the chair behind the desk. “You may want to sit down.”

Holly’s stomach clenched. “I don’t need to.”

Another one of those looks passed between them. Holly had dealt with enough lawyers, inspectors, bankers, contractors, and insurance adjusters to know when people had practiced a conversation before walking through her door. They’d decided what to say and what not to say. She braced herself.

“Over the last eight weeks, three people in the greater Blackridge area have been attacked,” Dawson said. “Two are dead. One survived, but she remains hospitalized.”

Holly’s hand found the edge of the desk. “And you think they came here?”

“We know they did.” Cahors flashed her a photograph on his phone of a series of people entering her shop. “All three were captured here by nearby street cameras within days of the attacks.”

Hundreds of people came through her shop every week. Courthouse employees, teachers, tourists, retirees, parents, teenagers, cops, attorneys, women from the book club, men who played cards. Some people wanted coffee, some wanted quiet, and some folks wanted to be around other humans without having to admit they were lonely.

“That can’t be the only connection,” Holly said.

“It isn’t,” Dawson said. “Items from your shop were found at more than one scene.”