Free The Edge of the Light by Elizabeth George

ferry?”
    He’d expected surprise, followed by delight. The surprise was there, but not the other. He said, “I need to talk to you and I wanted it to be in person. There a problem with that?”
    â€œOnly that the guys are totally obliterated here. They can’t even talk.”
    â€œThat’s okay, since I don’t want to talk to them.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t like it. Two of them are practically comatose. Look, I’ll meet you downtown.”
    â€œI don’t get why—”
    â€œSeth, I just told you. The guys are loaded. Why don’t we meet at the coffeehouse? I can be there in less than ten minutes.”
    He knew which coffeehouse she meant. Although this was the land of coffeehouses, and although in most towns in Washington you couldn’t walk half a block without running into two of them, in Port Townsend there was only one. Several places sold espresso, of course. But when it came to a real coffeehouse . . . It was where he’d first heard Prynne playing her fiddle.
    He said okay. If she didn’t give him her address there was noother way he was going to see her. So he rumbled out of the parking lot, telling Gus that a wait in the car was in store for him. The Lab did his tail-thumping bit. He’d just spent the entire day dashing around the construction site where Seth was working. He’d had the companionship of two other dogs. He was ready for a nap.
    The coffeehouse was practically at the end of Port Townsend’s main street of old brick buildings housing boutiques, antiques shops, and art galleries. It took up space in one of the ancient warehouses not far from the dock where fishing boats still went into Puget Sound. It was exactly what a coffeehouse should be: furnished with slouching sofas and tattered easy chairs, heated by a wood-pellet stove, dimly lit. Its walls were painted oxblood and its floor was beaten-up reclaimed lumber. Posters covered it, commemorating ancient rock bands and advertising appearances of newcomers.
    When Seth walked in, there was music playing, sort of an aimless strumming on a guitar. It was, he saw, coming from a guy with tattoos covering his neck and his hands. When he looked up at the rush of cold air, Seth saw he’d also had himself inked with KISS ME across his forehead. He was completely stoned.
    Looking around, Seth picked up on the fact that other stoners were in the coffeehouse. Even the barista looked halfway gone. He wondered why he’d not noticed any of this the only other time he’d been in the place. But Prynne, he decided, was the answer to that. He’d been there to hear her play, and once he’d caught sight of her, he hadn’t noticed another thing.
    He ordered a drip coffee for himself and a decaf skinny latte for Prynne. He was sitting at a table with these and a bran muffin when she breezed in the door. Before he could stand or say hi, two of the stoners called out, “Prynne, hey” and “Here comes trouble,” this with a laugh. Prynne gave them a smile and a raised-eyebrow nod before she walked over to Seth and put her arms around him. She kissed him and said, “My dude, my man. You look banged up. Hard day at work?”
    She stepped back and eyed the small table with its offering of muffin and latte. She dropped into a chair and said, “Sorry for being such a pig on the phone. It’s just that the guys . . . It wouldn’t’ve been a good scene.”
    She picked up her latte and saluted him with it. He picked up his coffee to do the same. She winked at him and he wanted to smile at her. But he could tell that she, too, was stoned.
    He decided to ignore it. There was something more important than telling her she probably shouldn’t get on her Vespa if she’d just done weed.
    His face must have given him away, though, because Prynne said, “Seth. Come on. You know I smoke weed. Just because you don’t, it