Proximity is Motive
Mary fixed her lipstick, gazing at her image in her phone as she sat on a stool at JL’s. Outside, sunlight bounced off the glass. Inside, the bar held a hush that invited stories.
“Top off?” the bartender asked, already reaching for the vermouth.
“Yes.” Mary set her elbow on the dark wood. “People like me shouldn’t get too comfortable with day drinking.”
“People like you?” His smile was polite but forgettable.
“Women who know exactly where to hide a body.” She acted mysterious on purpose, wanting people to keep guessing her motives—that way, they stayed away from her as she preferred.
He blinked, the quiet thinning.
At the far end of the bar, two tourists spoke in low, excited voices—the tone people used when grief made them feel important.
“. . . they say she was arranged. Like a painting.”
“. . . and the boyfriend? The handsome one—”
“. . . Zach? He looked wrecked on Instagram last night.”
Mary stirred an olive with a cocktail pick, her hand trembling just enough to betray her nerves. “People do love a pretty suspect,” she murmured, voice edged with a bitterness she wished she could hide.
The air stirred beside her. She turned as Gypsie slid onto the neighboring stool. The petite woman had hands like a goddess and gave the best massages on the island.
“I love another day drinker,” Gypsie said with a grin.
“Usual?” the bartender said. She nodded.
“I’m trying not to make it a habit,” Mary said.
“Don’t be a quitter,” Gypsie replied.
Mary smiled. “I’ve never been called that.”
“No, you’re strong,” Gypsie said, patting her arm.
Mary’s phone buzzed. A banner slid across the lock screen like a shiver.
Do you believe in fairy tales?
How about happy endings?
You left your knife at home.
Mary didn’t react. The questions weren’t questions. They were a clammy hand pressed tight on the back of her neck. Not much could scare her anymore. Not after everything she’d been through. The structure was familiar: short lines, no emojis, no name attached.
She held up her fingers for another drink. Gypsie looked into her glass, pretending she hadn’t seen the message. Fear felt too real these days.
“People are nervous with all the storms we’ve had lately,” the bartender said as he set her drink down. “Tourists keep wandering in asking for candles and stories.”
“Stories and storms are the same,” Mary told him. “Candles just make it look like a religious ceremony.”
He chuckled, though there was tension under the sound. “Are you okay, Mary?”
“I’m an island,” she said, a line she’d been repeating long enough to believe. “I erode slowly.”
She intended to keep saying it. Some mantras were survival.
