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“Give those kids my best,” River called after him. “Especially the ones who keep stealing my hubcaps. Tell them they’re sloppy and if they want pointers, they should come to me.”

The pastor’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t respond as he hustled toward the door, edging around Boone.

Nessie exhaled. Now that the holier-than-thou pastor was gone, she felt like she could breathe again. “Coffee?”

“That’d be great.” River slid onto a stool at the counter, all smiles. “Black for Boone, cream and sugar for me, and Ghost takes his with a shot of danger and a sprinkle of paranoia.”

Ghost didn’t even blink at the joke. His attention stayed locked on the sheriff.

Hank scowled. “I assume you boys are here about Thorne.”

“We’re here for coffee,” Boone said, finally moving from the doorway to the counter. “Best in town.”

“Right.” Hank’s smile was all teeth. “Nothing to do with your newest charity case sitting in my jail for assaulting one of my deputies.”

“Funny thing about that,” River said, accepting a steaming mug from Nessie with a wink. “Word around town is your deputy laid hands on a lady first. Sounds like Jax was just being a gentleman.”

“It was assault on a peace officer,” Hank said through gritted teeth. “Open and shut. His parole officer’s already been notified.”

Boone’s massive hands wrapped around the mug Nessie placed before him, his knuckles bearing fresh scrapes. “Parole violations require evidence and a hearing.”

“Which he’ll get.” Hank’s pale eyes glittered. “Right after we finish investigating his connection to Bailee Cooper’s murder.”

“Murder investigation’s a separate issue,” Boone said. “You’re holding him on assault.”

The bakery had gone cemetery-quiet. Even Earl and Marv, who’d lived in Solace their entire lives and survived its every storm, seemed to be holding their breath. Dewey Stafford watched it all with wide eyes. No doubt he’d be retelling this story for the rest of the summer.

“You know,” Hank said, addressing Nessie loud enough for everyone to hear, “you might want to be more careful about your new friends. Never know when their... proclivities... might rub off on you.” He adjusted his belt, fingers brushing his holster.

“I’d hate to see you or that boy of yours get caught in the crossfire. ”

Boone’s eyes narrowed. He set his mug down with deliberate care and stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and his uncle until they stood toe to toe. “We protect our own.”

Hank didn’t back down, but realization flashed in his eyes, recognition that the boy he’d once bullied had grown into a man even he shouldn’t push too far. “Is that a threat, nephew?”

“Just a fact, uncle.”

The air between them practically crackled with old grudges and fresh animosity.

Nessie dipped a hand into her apron pocket, wondering if she should call for help, though who would come when the sheriff himself was the problem?

“Well!” Margery Pendry said and rose from her corner table. The tiny woman planted herself between the two men and glared at the sheriff before turning a bright smile on Boone. “If it isn’t Boone Callahan. Haven’t seen you in town for an age. How’s your mama?”

“As good as can be, Mrs. Pendry.”

“Poor dear.” Margery tutted and patted his arm. “And how’s Walker doing? Still pretending he doesn’t have arthritis in that knee?”

Boone’s posture relaxed a fraction, and he took a step back. “Yes, ma’am. Still refuses to see a doctor about it.”

“Lord save me from stubborn cowboys,” Margery sighed, then turned to Hank. “And you, Sheriff. Aren’t you supposed to be at the town council meeting? Leland mentioned something about the festival committee needing your approval on the Memorial Day parade route.”

Hank’s jaw worked for a moment before he, too, took a step back. “I suppose I should head over.”

“Wonderful.” Margery smiled, the expression somehow both sweet and sharp. “I’ll join you. We can discuss the flower arrangements for the veterans’ memorial while we walk.”

It was a masterful exit strategy, giving Hank a face-saving reason to leave while ensuring he couldn’t double back. Margery had been manipulating Solace’s social currents since before most of them were born, and she did it with the flair of an orchestra conductor.

“This isn’t over,” Hank muttered to Boone.

“Never thought it was.”

With a final glare that encompassed Nessie, Boone, and the entire bakery, Hank stormed out, Margery trotting along beside him, already chattering about fundraising opportunities.

As the door swung shut behind them, the bakery collectively exhaled. Conversations resumed in stilted murmurs.

Nessie leaned against the counter, her knees threatening to buckle now that the adrenaline was ebbing. River sipped his coffee like nothing had happened. Ghost remained a silent sentinel. Boone stood by the door, watching the street as if expecting trouble to circle back.

And that’s when she saw him.

Tucked into the booth beneath the faded photo of Solace’s founding families, a man sat with a paper cup from a truck stop up the highway. Dark gray suit. No tie. Dark hair, bright blue eyes. Familiar. Too familiar.

U.S. Marshal Corbin Brandt.

She hadn’t seen him come in. Had he been sitting there this whole time, sipping gas station coffee and quietly watching it all unfold?

Oh, God.

His presence could only mean one thing.

He wanted to take her and Oliver out of Solace.