Page 8 of Shadow Justice

Holly’s stomach dropped. “What kind of items?”

Dawson’s gaze flicked to Cahors again, and Holly’s patience snapped thin. “Stop holding back. What kind of items?”

Cahors answered. “A travel cup. A napkin. A pastry bag.”

Holly’s mouth went dry. “Those things leave here all day long.”

“We understand that,” Dawson said. “But the items were placed deliberately. They weren’t incidental trash.”

“Placed how?”

“We can’t disclose those details of the investigation.”

Holly stepped away from the desk, then had nowhere to go in the tiny room. “You can come in here, scare me half to death, tell me people are dead and my shop is connected, and then refuse to answer my question because procedure says so.”

Dawson’s expression softened a fraction. “Ms. Bristol, we don’t believe you’re involved.”

“How comforting.”

Cahors cleared his throat. “We believe someone may be using your shop to identify or access victims. Possibly to observe them, learn their routines, or make initial contact.”

Holly shook her head. “No, this is a coffee shop. People come to Sanctuary because they feel safe.”

Dawson held her gaze. “That may be exactly why the perpetrator chose it.”

Holly glanced at the photo of herself and Roni on opening day. Holly looked wrecked and happy, her dark blonde hair falling over one shoulder, her apron crooked, her smile too big for her face. She’d been terrified that day. Terrified that no one would come, or that too many people would come. Terrified the espresso machine would break, and that she’d mistaken a dream for a plan. But beneath the fear had been something steadier.

This place is mine.

Now two strangers were standing in her office, telling her some predator may have walked through her front door, breathed in the scent of cinnamon and coffee, listened to customers laugh, watched Holly smile at people who needed kindness, and seen not community but opportunity.

She rubbed at her too tight chest. “What do you want from me?”

“We need your cooperation,” Dawson said. “Customer names, staff schedules, security footage, any incidents that seemed unusual. Anyone paying special attention to the victims or to you. We need a list of regulars and groups that meet here.”

Holly’s thoughts jumped to the courthouse crowd, the grief meetings that gathered around the big table on Thursday afternoons, Roni dropping in, Judge Madsen, Mrs. Alvarez, Maya, teenagers doing homework, women coming in after court with red eyes and shaking hands.

“You want to spy on my customers.”

“We want you to help us identify a killer,” Agent Dawson corrected.

The bluntness hit its mark. Holly gripped the back of the chair. “My customers are not killers.”

“One of them may be.”

She should tell them about the card. It was exactly the kind of thing a sensible person handed over to the FBI immediately.

But some instinct made her hesitate, because once she said it out loud, the card would become part of this. Sanctuary would become part of this. The threat would stop being theoretical and start being something that had already touched her counter.

Dawson seemed to read Holly’s face. “Has anything unusual happened recently?”

She took a deep breath and slipped the card out from her apron pocket. “I found this a little while before you came in.”

Dawson slipped a hand into an interior coat pocket and brought out a blue latex glove. She pulled it on and took the loyalty card. Her expression didn’t change until she read the message on the back.

Cahors leaned in to read it, too. “Do you know who wrote this?”

“No. It was just lying there.”