Page 54 of A Wolfe in the Woods

Through the glass doors, holo-ads flickered to life across the way, casting shifting color over the pavement like artificial daylight.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, the edge of his lip quirking up as he regarded me, big hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

I ignored the way that hesitant smile made me feel.

Instead, I said, “I don’t have a lot of time. So, we’d better hurry.”

CHAPTER 15

JONATHAN

The café sat on the edge of the plaza, all chrome fixtures and manicured ivy, with windows that gleamed like ice. The kind of place where meetings were brokered over pour-overs and everyone spoke like they were being recorded.

I held the door for her. She didn’t say thank-you. Didn’t need to.

We stepped inside. The scent of roasted espresso and rosemary butter filled the air. It was too clean, too polished. There was no grit, no bark, no trace of a soul. Just soft bland jazz, filtered light, and faint holographic menus hovering between tables, flickering softly as they updated. A row of potted plants sat nearby, looking artificial and like they cost more than the truck I drove in on.

Blanchette walked ahead of me, posture tight, shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact. I couldn’t tell if it was me she was guarded against or this whole damn city. Maybe both.

We found a table near the window.

“I appreciate you making the time,” I said.

She didn’t meet my eyes. “You said it was about my grandmother.”

“It is,” I replied, folding my hands on the table. “But also about what I said back at the Hollow.”

A beat of silence stretched between us.

Then a server came, young and obligatorily cheerful. Blanche ordered a black coffee. I asked for the same, then changed my mind. “Actually, on second thought…I’ll take whatever your lightest roast is. With cream and sugar.”

“You got it,” the waitress said. Turning to walk away, she pointed out, “Sugar’s on the table.”

Blanche’s brow twitched, like my order surprised her. Maybe it surprised me too.

I let out a quiet chuckle. “Huh. Must’ve picked that up from your grandmother.”

She glanced over, puzzled. “How so?”

“Well…June liked her sugar.”

Blanche blinked. “My grandmother? The one who rarely ever used sugar in her baking, saying the fruit was sweet enough already?”

“Yeah.”

Blanche narrowed her eyes slightly, intrigued. “I rarely saw her eat her own baked goods. She’d give them all to the neighbors before they even cooled.”

“She had a stash of sugar,” I said. “A whole system, really. It started when I used to drive her to the market. On the way back, we’d stop at Goldie’s for crepes. She ordered the same thing every single time—lingonberry with butter and lemon.”

Blanche blinked again, like the image didn’t compute.

“After I’d pay the bill,” I went on, “she’d swipe exactly three sugar packets—one raw, one white, and one of those pink ones she claimed were poison. She’d use the first two and never touch the pink. When I asked why she took it if she wasn’t gonna use it, she’d just shrug and say,’Cause I like the color.”

“You’re kidding,” Blanche said, incredulous. Just then the waitress returned, depositing our coffee mugs on the table before sliding away.

“Seriously. She kept them in that little tin in her pantry—the one with the horse and carriage on the lid.”

Blanche blinked. “Oh, my gods. My entire childhood, she’d even limit how much jam I could have, even though she baked constantly!”