The Lush was packed with suits and ties and little black dresses, and no one seemed to notice or care when one more squeezed in. I checked to make sure my wig-scarf was securely in place, drawing my oversized sunglasses down the bridge of my nose to let my eyes adjust to the dim light inside. The brass-and-cherry island bar was dressed in colorful bottles and backlit etched glass, studded with unreasonably attractive young bartenders who probably spent their days circulating headshots and skimming the internet for castingcalls in DC. I wove through the place, nudging my way around high tables and tight knots of conversation, finally managing to grab the last empty stool at the far end of the bar. I reached to sling the strap of my diaper bag over the back of my chair before remembering I’d left it at Georgia’s with the kids. Instead, I set my handbag down on the counter in front of me, feeling uncomfortably light without all my usual baggage, as if I’d forgotten something important at home. Aside from my ID, all I had with me was a tube of burgundy lipstick, Steven’s twenty, my phone, and the crumpled slip of paper from Harris Mickler’s wife.
I searched the faces of the men at the tables. Then the women. They all reminded me vaguely of Steven and Theresa, but I was pretty sure I didn’t know any of them. I peeled my glasses off and tucked them in my handbag. I thought about ordering a beer, but this place didn’t exactly give off Budweiser vibes. Instead, I ordered a vodka tonic, casually scanning the bar for Harris Mickler as I sipped it. Medium height, medium build, pepper-brown hair a little salty at the temples. His eyes, small for his face, thinned to two deep creases when he smiled. I didn’t see anyone who resembled him anywhere, so when the bartender passed, I raised a finger, catching his attention. He leaned across the bar, his hands flat against it, tipping his ear to hear me better over the hum and chatter.
“Where do the corporate types usually hang out?” I asked him.
He glanced at the bare ring finger of my left hand. With a knowing smile, he jutted his chin toward a loud group of men and women laughing around a handful of raised tables. “Real-estate types usually huddle over there.” Then he tipped his head to the group beside them. “Banking and mortgage types don’t stray far.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a lively group at the other end of the bar. “Entrepreneurs, pyramid schemes, home-based businesses,” he saidwith an annoyed quirk of his brow that suggested he’d picked this side of the bar for a reason. “The top-shelf corporate suits usually reserve the booths in the back.” He plucked a glass from under the counter, letting his eyes slide over me. “You don’t look like the top-shelf type.”
I stabbed my lime with my stirrer and sucked down the last of my drink. “And you don’t look old enough to serve me.”
“Ouch!” he said through a laugh. He bit his lip and eyed me with renewed interest. “I only meant you don’t seem clichéd and uptight.”
I swirled the ice in my glass. “Mmmm… clichéd. Is that an SAT word?”
Our fingers brushed as he took my empty glass. “LSAT, actually.” He paused, gauging my reaction before swapping the glass for a new one. I hadn’t even noticed he’d been making me another. “What’s your name?”
I sucked on a lime wedge while I considered how to answer that. What the hell. Why not? “Theresa,” I said, holding out a hand.
“I’m Julian.” His handshake was good. Not a testosterone-driven assertion of dominance. Not a weak suggestion that he underestimated mine.
“What are you planning to study, Julian?”
“I’m in law school,” he corrected me. If I’d hurt his feelings, he didn’t let on. “Third year of criminal law at GMU.”
I raised a cynical brow. “Aren’t state prosecutors also clichéd and uptight?”
He slung a bar rag over his shoulder. “I don’t have such lofty aspirations. I figure the world could use a few good public defenders. How about you? What do you do?”
I nursed my drink, letting the ice clink against my teeth while Ithought about what to say. I’d made it a point never to tell strangers what I did for a living. The conversations always turned weird. And memorable. I looked down at Theresa’s dress and picked a lint fuzz off the fabric. “Real estate.”
“Sounds boring.”
I choked out a laugh. “Terribly.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said a little cautiously, “but you don’t seem like the real-estate type either.”
“Really?” He was cocky, but endearing, and maybe it was the second vodka tonic, but his smile was growing on me. “What’s my type then?”
Julian studied me as he polished a glass. “Cold beer and takeout pizza. Barefoot, jeans, and a loose-fitting faded T.”
I felt the blood race to my cheeks, surprised by how on the mark he was, and by the fact that I didn’t mind his candor. Or the way he was looking at me. I drained the last of my vodka tonic as I considered the differences between Theresa and me, wondering if Steven had ever been into takeout pizza, or if his tastes had always run top-shelf and I’d just been too ignorant to see it.
“Too bad you’re not interested in family law. The world could use a few honest divorce lawyers, too.” I laid the twenty on the counter and slid down from my stool. I had to pee, and the restrooms were probably at the back of the bar, near the booths Julian had mentioned. I could check them out on my way. Just for curiosity’s sake.
“Hey,” Julian said, cupping a hand over mine before I turned away. “My shift ends in an hour. If you want to wait around, we could grab something to eat after.”
A honey-colored curl hung low over his eye, and his smile felt perfectly uneven. I won’t lie and say I didn’t grant myself a few secondsto think about it. “Thanks.” I slid the twenty across the bar toward him. I needed to get home to my kids before my sister sent every patrol car in the city out to track me down. And the last thing I needed was for them to find me rolling in pepperoni in the back of my minivan with a cougar-hunting coed. “I’m not really dressed for pizza.”
He sank his teeth into his lower lip, suppressing a grin.
I thanked him and pointed to the back of the bar, letting him know that, as tempting as it was, my plans for the night hadn’t changed. And then I set off to find the ladies’ room. And maybe Harris Mickler.
The booths behind the bar were private, with black leather seats and high wooden backs and warm, dim lighting, making me look like the world’s biggest creep for trying to see into each one as I hobbled by in a pair of heels I hadn’t worn in years. A blister had formed where the tight strap dug into the joint below my right toe, and the two vodka tonics I’d just sucked down on an empty stomach weren’t making navigation any easier. I felt myself listing slightly as I slunk down the narrow aisle between the booths toward the sign for the restrooms. A phone chimed as I approached the last one.
“Would you excuse me,” a man said. “I have to take this call.” The man slid out without looking up from his phone, nearly knocking me over as he stalked toward the bar. “This is Harris,” he said in a low voice into his phone as he brushed past me.
Harris.I rested a hand on the back of the nearest booth for balance as I turned to catch another glimpse. The couple sitting beside me looked at me curiously, so I bent over my heel and made a show of adjusting my strap while a woman eased out of Harris Mickler’sbooth. Her high heels clicked down the hall and disappeared into the ladies’ room. I lingered for a moment, attempting to listen to Harris’s conversation a few feet away, but it was over quickly and he pocketed his phone. Flagging the nearest bartender, he ordered two glasses of champagne and returned to his seat. I rushed for the bathroom, surprised to find my heart racing as I slipped into an empty stall.
What was I doing? This was ridiculous.Iwas ridiculous. So Harris Mickler was stepping out on his wife. So what? Plenty of men had done it before. Including my own husband. As much as I hated him for it, I could never imagine killing him. Not even for fifty thousand dollars. Yet here I was, spying on a man I’d never even met.
