Page 9

I imagine staying behind in the truck. In the darkness. Under that hooded sky with its blood-red moon. With those shadows slipping through the forest.

Given the choice between staying alone in that truck or walking with a guy the size of a redwood?

Man, these painkillers are great. Barely feel a thing. Honest.

“I’m good,” I say, a little too quickly. “And with any luck, our journey is at an end anyway.”

Henry matches my pace, and in a few minutes, I give a soft laugh, as that oddly blinking light turns into a neon sign.

“A bar,” I say. “Of course it is. And I don’t think I’ve ever needed a drink more. I might even be happy my car isn’t drivable, ’cause I think I’d like a double.”

“Uh, those painkillers don’t really mix with alcohol.”

“Spoilsport.”

One corner of his mouth twitches up. “Hopefully they have coffee. A half shot of Bailey’s would be fine.”

I sigh, deeply.

“Piping-hot coffee,” he says as we turn into the lane. “Right now, that might be better than booze.”

“You just keep telling yourself that. But, yes, fine. I’ll take…” I slow as I see the place. “Or maybe I’m good.”

That neon sign isn’t the only thing that’s broken. Two windows are boarded up and the front porch railing is half missing. Rain pours from a hanging gutter.

Driving in this part of the state, I’ve seen places like this, little outposts for food, drink, gas, and bait, scattered along a lake route that probably did a booming business back in the days of lazy summer road trips.

Most of them have been closed for decades, but that flashing light—plus the bluish glow through one unbroken window—says this one is actually open.

“I’m still getting a coffee,” Henry says as his gaze sweeps over the dive bar.

“Enjoy.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. But if it’s hot, I’m drinking it. Let me pop my head in first, though.”

“In case you’re met with the barrel of a shotgun?”

He hums banjo music, and I shake my head. But I do let him go first, hanging back as the wooden step creaks under his weight. He takes hold of the doorknob and pauses a second, as if wondering how bad it’d actually be if we had to wait in the truck until dawn. Then he resolutely yanks on the door, and it swings open.

“Welcome!” a male voice calls from within. “Looking for a little shelter from the storm?”

“We are.”

Henry beckons, and I slip in behind him. Heat envelops me, and I shiver with pleasure. The smell of coffee wafts up, too, and my mouth waters.

“I’m glad I decided to stay open and wait out the storm,” the voice says. “This might be the fullest we’ve been since summer.”

I need to move past Henry’s bulk to see the speaker. He’s young, maybe early twenties, which surprises me. In a place like this, I’d expect some old codger keeping the business open for his buddies, as a retirement-era hobby.

This guy looks as if he belongs in a very different dive bar—the trendy kind I’d find in Chicago, with craft beer and throwback cocktails. He’s ridiculously good-looking, lean with bright blue eyes. An artful mop of blond hair. Classic white tee over jeans that look like they’ve been faded and ripped since they left the store.

“Come in, come in,” the bartender says, waving.

There’s one other patron, who sits at the bar, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up. The person hasn’t turned around since we entered. The figure is small, with narrow shoulders and hips. Jeans. Hiking boots. A slender hand lifts a beer glass for a drink.

“Bar, table, the choice is yours,” the bartender says.

“We’re actually looking for a phone,” Henry says. Then quickly adds, “Though we’ll get a drink, of course. We hit a fallen tree about a quarter of a mile back. Disabled both our vehicles.”