I come behind the bar.
"Hops," she says. Her voice is perfectly level. "Patrick Shanfield."
"I know who he is," I say. I look at Shanfield. "This is my bar. Is she interested in talking to you?"
Shanfield doesn't miss a beat; journalists rarely do. "Just having a conversation."
"She doesn't look like she's having a conversation," I say pleasantly. "She looks like she'd like you to take your phone off my bar."
Shanfield picks up the phone. He's not rattled — he's been doing this a long time. "Mr. Sullivan. You're aware of Ms. Wild's history in Vancouver's food scene?"
"I'm aware of your piece," I say. "I'm also aware of the health inspector's report from that evening, which doesn't support your account of events. Smith Reyes will have a piece up tomorrow morning. You might want to read it before yours is published."
A pause. Shanfield looks at Sage. Sage is looking at me.
"That's a strong claim," Shanfield says.
"It's a factual claim," I say. "You want another beer, or are we done?"
He finishes what's in his glass. He leaves.
Sage is still looking at me.
"You called people," she says.
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Without asking me."
I think about this. "I asked if I could call people. You said you'd think about it."
"And I came back here the next day and you'd already—"
"You came back," I say. "I took that as a yes."
She picks up her jacket from the stool. Her hands are not quite still. "That was not yours to handle."
"I know," I say. "I'm sorry. I should have told you what I'd done."
"I was packing my bag when you called." She looks at me. "I was at Silver Lodge this morning with my bag on the bed and I was putting things in it."
The bar is quiet. Bev has taken herself to the far end, which is Bev's version of discretion.
"But you came here instead," I say.
She stops. "Yes."
"Why?"
She looks at me for a long time. I wait. She's working through something and she needs the space to do it.
"I don't know what I am here," she says finally. "I don't know if I'm a chef without a kitchen or a tourist who stayed too long or what you think I—"
She stops.
"You're the person who made me understand my own beer," I say.
She looks at me and walks out the door.
