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“She married?”

“No, but⁠—”

“Then Sterling.”

I hear him swallow. “Right.”

I write down: uses White? Check.

“When did you last see her?” I ask.

“Man, I don’t know. I see a lot of people.”

“You remembered her name.”

“She’s pretty.”

My grip tightens hard enough, the cheap pen creaks in protest.

“When?” I ask again.

“Couple weeks ago maybe. Maybe more.”

“Alone?”

“Sometimes.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He exhales. “Yeah. That time, I think she was alone.”

“What time?”

“Really? You expect me to remember that?”

I wait.

Waiting works better than threats sometimes. People hate silence. They rush to fill it. Toss secrets in like coins into a fountain.

Randy lasts four seconds. “She came in late. Not dressed up or anything. Just jeans, jacket, hair all messy. Sat at the end of the bar. Ordered soda water.”

“Not alcohol?”

“No.”

“Did she seem scared?”

Randy hesitates long enough for it to matter. I lean back in the chair, staring at Maggie’s photo while silence stretches between us.

“I mean…” His voice drops. “She seemed off.”

My shoulders tighten automatically. “How off?”

“Jumpy. Kept looking at the door.”

My spine straightens. “Was anyone looking for her?”

“I don’t know.” Irritable whine. He knows something.