None of that matters.
This does, this place, this coffee-infused oasis tucked away from ugly tongues and thorny lies.
I can’t stop smiling as I start a fresh batch of beans roasting.
It’s a slow process if I want to do it right without burning the beans, so that gives me plenty of time to settle in with my laptop.
I park it at the bar rather than my office, just to let the atmosphere work its wonders on my mood.
It’s already working, really.
I’m playing a little Ed Sheeran, tapping my fingers on the edge of the laptop and whispering under my breath, bobbing my head in rhythm. I’m actually having fun reviewing revenue reports and keeping one ear alert for the timer on the roasting machine.
When something breaks my concentration, though, it’s not the timer.
It’s the bells jingling over the front door.
Crap.
I must’ve forgotten to lock back up when I let myself in.
Most people know the café closes at nine, but sometimes in the warm months we get tourists driving through, hoping for an all-night diner. Considering it’s past ten o’clock, I’m guessing that’s what I have on my plate.
“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder as I spin my seat, tapping my laptop to mute the music. “We’re closed and—”
The words shrivel in my throat as I see who’s waiting for me.
Three hulking men who look like they’re already so hopped up on their own testosterone they don’t need a single drop of coffee to send them to Jupiter.
They’re flanking a very petite woman who, nonetheless, carries ten times more menace in her small frame than a single one of those human lions.
Paisley Lockwood.
She’s a little blond pixie from Satan’s grad school, every tiny ounce of her packed with delicate muscle. Her heart-shaped face is framed by a boyish, tousled cut that makes her eyes look like flecks of green ice set against a flower bed.
Her smile, a cruel gash.
Her lips so pretty pink.
But it’s those bared teeth that gives away who she is, always ready to sink into the nearest jugular. They look sharp—vicious and predatory—like something belonging to a rodent who’s got the world’s best dentist on payroll.
About as sharp as the blade of the pearl-handled switchblade in her hand, flipping and twirling between her fingers with expert ease until the initials KL on the ornately engraved hilt blur, and the point winks in silver flashes.
She’s stylish as ever in white leather capris, straw wedge sandals, a pink patterned shirt, and a perky little neck scarf that’d be to die for—if only she didn’t ooze murder from every steaming pore.
Catch her on the street, and you’d think she was just a cutesy tourist taking a break from her chic city life to explore the wonders of an infamous small town hidden in Montana.
Catch her right now, though, and you wouldn’t hesitate to believe she’d take that switchblade across someone’s throat in a second.
Namely, across mine.
“Hello, Fe-lic-i-tee,” she says, taking a deafening step forward.
Gag.
I hate how my name sounds in that lisping baby-girl voice she uses. How she always sucks on it like a piece of candy, turning my name warped and bitter, just as tart as the fear rising in the back of my throat.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” she whispers.
Never long enough, I want to say—but my tongue stays as petrified as the rest of me.
I can’t move.
I can’t speak.
I just hope I can find it in me to run.
As long as they stay near the door, there’s a slim chance I can dart through the back hall and out the employee exit.
But Paisley’s already sauntering toward me, and my rabbiting heart becomes a sinking stone as the three goons with her fan out. They move casually, but take up careful strategic positions on either side of the bar.
My options? Not good.
Go left, go right, there’s a goon boxing me in. Try to jump over the bar, and there’s another one, already hovering close enough to the cash register to tell me exactly what he wants.
Run forward, there’s Paisley, a pint-sized Venus flytrap.
That pretty smile.
That glittering knife.
Nothing but sharp edges everywhere.
Yeah. I guess it’s not hard to follow my darting eyes, because Paisley lets out a cruel and syrupy giggle that’s straight-up sociopath despite its harsh brightness.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to skip out on me already, Fe-lic-i-tee?” she sings. “I haven’t seen you in almost an entire year. Imagine that. Don’t you wanna get caught up? Have a little girl talk, daddy’s girl to daddy’s girl?”
“Not really,” I manage to choke out, even if the words feel like swallowing a heap of wet coffee grounds. “What do you want?”
Paisley sways to a halt in front of me.
Close enough to make me too aware of that blade.
I can almost feel its bite as it turns and turns and turns, and she’s within arm’s reach.
Be careful.
I know just how dangerous these people are.
Paisley’s father was the man my dad used to work for, deal for, fly for.
Possibly the man he died for, no matter what was listed on his death certificate.
I stare into her eerie, childlike smile for a few more hell-seconds—before it vanishes, going completely dead.
Now she looks like an empty, soulless, porcelain doll. Devoid of all expression.
A chill washes through me.
This is her true medusa face.
And her truth is terrifying.
That dead, cold regard holds me like a wriggling bunny as the knife stops flipping with a smack of the hilt against her palm. Her slim, delicate finger extends along the blade, holding it almost daintily.
With her other hand, she reaches into the breast pocket of her shirt and withdraws her phone.
She doesn’t even have to look at her screen, holding it up to face me as she slides her thumb quickly across the bottom of the touchscreen, swiping photo after photo after photo in a gallery.
She doesn’t say a word.
She doesn’t need to.
Not when those photos scream loud enough to flash-freeze my blood.
My mother.
Harper Randall.
I thought she’d be safer if I moved her to Coeur d’Alene. Happier. And she definitely looks happy, caught unsuspecting while she’s out shopping, picking over flowers in a store, laughing with a group of older women, feeding ducks, sweeping her front porch.
But safer?
No.
Not when those photos make it deadly clear that Paisley could make her into hamburger—or worse—at any moment she chooses.
Which means she’s definitely here for something I probably can’t deliver.
There’s a rock lodged in my throat.
I force back the lump of horror and lift my eyes from the phone to Paisley, glaring at her. I’m too proud to cower, though if it keeps my mom safe, you’d better believe I’ll get down on my knees and beg if that’s what this maniac wants.
Right now, I’m too angry to do anything but snap, “What are you trying to tell me? What do you want from me now?”
“Oh, Felicity.” That mocking voice is back, candy-bright and pitying, and she clucks her tongue, lowering her phone—but not the knife. “Really, now, what do I always want? I’ve been playing this game with you for too long. I’ve been too lenient.”