The night shift passed in a blur of customers and calculations. Nathan didn't return—he never did nights—but I felt his absence like a missing tooth. Kept glancing at his empty seat, expecting green eyes and careful questions.
"You've got it bad," Matt observed during close. "Never seen you this distracted."
"I'm not distracted." I miscounted the till twice, proving myself a liar. "Just thinking about Prague. Maybe I should take a vacation."
"To Prague. Right." He helped me recount. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your afternoon activities, would it?"
"You mean Nathan. Or the pest control?"
"I mean the guy who's got you twisted up like a pretzel without even trying." He locked the register, giving me a serious look. "Men like that are dangerous, Bunny. They make you sloppy. Make you want things you can't afford to want."
He was right. I knew he was right. But knowing and doing something about it were different things, and when 3:10 rolled around the next day, I was still watching the door.
3:17 came and went. No Nathan.
3:30. 4:00. 4:30.
"Maybe he found what he was looking for," I told myself, serving other customers with mechanical precision. "Maybe Lilah isn't that interesting after all."
But at 5:23, the door chimed.
He looked wrong. Disheveled in ways that his usual control wouldn't allow. His jacket was missing, shirt untucked,and there was a smear of blood on his collar that made my professional interest perk up.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, taking his usual seat. "Got held up at work."
I poured his scotch without asking, noting the scrapes on his knuckles that matched mine. "Rough consultation?"
"Something like that." He downed half the glass in one swallow, very unlike him. "Turns out some patterns are more dangerous than others. Some networks don't appreciate scrutiny."
My blood chilled. "Nathan—"
"Did you know," he interrupted, staring at his glass, "that the Institute kept detailed records? Not just of their... products. But of their buyers. Their network. Their methods. All very carefully documented and hidden."
I couldn't breathe. "How do you—"
"Because someone's been hunting those records. Following the same patterns I have. Asking the same questions." He looked up, and his eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them. "Someone with a very personal interest in finding out what happened to Gabriel Mire."
The trafficking phone buzzed in my pocket. Nathan's eyes tracked the movement.
"That's not your regular phone," he observed.
"No."
"The kind of phone someone might use for... specific communications."
"Yes."
We stared at each other across the bar, all pretense finally stripped away. He knew what I was. I knew what he knew. The dance was over, and I wasn't sure what came next.
"So," I said finally, refilling his glass. "What now?"
"Now?" He laughed, short and sharp. "Now I decide if I'm going to tell Lilah's parents that their daughter is dead, or if I'm going to help Bunny the bartender find out what really happened to the man who killed her."
The words hung between us like a challenge. Like an offer. Like a recognition of something neither of us quite understood yet.
"He's not dead," I said quietly. "Gabriel. I'd know if he was dead. I'd feel it."
"Maybe." Nathan's hand covered mine on the bar, warm and solid and real. "Or maybe you just need him to be alive because you don't know who you are without someone to look for."
