Troy shrugged without looking up. “Sure. Why not.”
“I'll bring him home safe,” Rafael said with a smirk that I wanted to punch off his face. “Promise.”
“Fine,” I said. Voice flat and professional, giving away nothing. “Be careful.”
Troy's head came up at that. Eyes meeting mine for the first time since he'd walked in. Something flickered in his expression that I couldn't read, gone too fast to name.
Then Rafael was guiding him toward the door with a hand on his shoulder that made my jaw clench hard enough to hurt.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, trying to figure out when I'd started measuring every room by where Troy was standing in it.
The bar was called Murphy's. It was a small dive place three blocks from my house. I'd been coming here for years.
The place was comfortable and familiar and safe in a way nothing else felt right now.
I sat at the bar and ordered whiskey. Drank it fast and ordered another.
“Rough day?” Murphy asked. He was sixty, maybe sixty-five, with the weathered face that came from decades of listening to other people's problems.
“You could say that.”
“You look like you got into a fight.”
“I did. Two nights ago.”
“Did you win?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why do you look like you lost?” He refilled my glass without being asked. “Woman trouble?”
“Man trouble,” I said before I could stop myself.
Murphy's eyebrows went up but he didn't comment. Just nodded like that made perfect sense. “Worse type. They never say what they mean and when they do say it, they mean another thing entirely.”
I laughed, bitter and tired. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
We talked for a while. Murphy told me about his daughter's wedding planning disaster. I half-listened, made the right sounds at the right times, kept drinking.
Other regulars drifted over. Jake, who worked construction. Eddie, who drove trucks. We talked about fights, about local gossip, about the Bears' terrible season and whether they'd ever be worth watching again.
Surface shit. Easy conversation that required no emotional investment.
By the time I left, it was past eight. I walked home slowly, letting the alcohol settle, trying not to think about where Troy was or what he was doing or who he was with.
Failed spectacularly at that too.
I kept my eyes on the street as I walked. Checked the reflections in storefront windows. Watched for anyone lingering too long at corners or crossing the street when I did. Looking for signs that I was being followed.
I didn't know if they were done with me. Didn't know if they were watching, waiting for another chance. Didn't know jack shit about who had sent them or why.
A car passed too slowly for my liking. I clocked the make, the plates, kept walking. It turned at the next corner anddisappeared. Probably nothing. Probably just someone looking for an address.
Probably.
I scanned the next block before crossing. Checked behind me again. Clear.
The house was dark when I got back. There were no signs that anyone was home at all. I'd half expected that. What I hadn't expected was the sound I heard the moment I hit the second stair.
