“And a cheese Danish,” I add, eyeing the glass case like it might judge me if I don’t commit.
“Well, of course you can,” she says, already moving toward the coffee pot. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll have it ready in a jiffy.”
I slide onto one of the stools at the counter, watching her work. Had I known this place existed when I first arrived, I might’ve hidden here instead of charging headfirst into conflict.
It’s cozy. Lived-in. Clearly the only café in town—and judging by the way she moves, the heart of it.
The bell jingles again, and she glances up just as a uniformed county sheriff steps inside.
“How’s it going, Daisy?” he asks, dropping into a chair at one of the tables like he’s done it a thousand times.
“Hanging in there, Tommy,” she replies easily. “The usual?”
He nods.
She sets my coffee in front of me before pouring his. “There you go, dear. Want me to warm up that Danish?”
“Yes, please,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug and taking a sip.
I close my eyes in bliss. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
No offense to Gage and his black-coffee-no-nonsense philosophy, but creamer makes life better. That’s just science.
She slides the plate toward me witha wink. “Good?”
I take a bite and hum. “Delicious. You’re a miracle worker.”
She studies me for a moment, something shifting behind her eyes. “You all right, hon?”
I pause. “Yeah. Why?”
“You just look like someone I knew once,” she says thoughtfully.
My spine straightens. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if half this town knew my father better than I do.
“Who?” I ask carefully.
She wipes her hands on her apron. “Probably nothing. But a man named James Carter used to stop in here whenever he passed through Bell River. Breakfast every time. Sweet man. Tipped well.”
The air leaves my lungs.
My dad.
Why would he be passing through Bell River enough for the locals to remember him?
She smiles wistfully. “Let me check on our lawman’s breakfast,” she says, already moving toward the back.
Her words cling to me through the rest of my coffee. Through the drive. Through the wait at the county commissioner’s office.
He knew Samuel Hollis. Knew him well enough to arrange something this complicated. This binding.
So why didn’t he tell me?
“Miss Carter?”
I look up to see a man in a tailored suit standing in the doorway. I gather my papers and follow him into an office that’s oddly modern compared to the rest of town—clean lines, polished surfaces, carefully curated authority.
He circles the desk and sits. I spread the documents out, pointing to the discrepancies.
