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Mike sets a glass down on the matt. “I’m not sure what I can offer you that would help. I told the other guys everything I knew a year ago.” He slings a white towel over his shoulder.
Deja vu tickles the edge of my awareness. The action triggers a memory from that night at the Dock House, and Torrance the bartender flashes in my mind. His suave moves. Good looks. The way he winked at Cam.
I push away from the memory and clear my throat. “Let’s go over it one last time, anyway.”
At his indifferent shrug, I pull out my phone and start recording. While Rhys directs the interview, I try to ignore the sense of familiarity sneaking over me. My heart is a pulse too fast. Palpitations mute my hearing every time Mike smiles.
That smile.
It must be paranoia, the sight of the white lotuses at the crime scene still fresh, but when Mike Rixon looks at me…I swear recognition steals across his sharp features. Something about him feels so familiar.
“She worked that day,” Mike confirms with another shrug. “Last I saw of Joanna. I found out two days later she’d been killed when the police showed up here to question me and my staff.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Who was questioned?”
He pushes out a long breath. “Me, Sal, Romero, and Jessica.”
That doesn’t seem like a full staff. I glance around the restaurant floor, noting at least twenty tables.
Rhys catches on. “Do you remember who worked with Joanna during her last shift?”
Mike drives a hand through his wind-tousled hair. “I really don’t. I’ll go print out the schedule for you, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods and turns to head to the back, but pauses to add, “Oh, and Torrance.” My heart stutters at the name. “He was also here with me that afternoon.”
“Wait,” I say, stopping him from leaving the bar area. Stalled, I rack my brain for how to press for more information about Torrance. “This person wasn’t mentioned in the case file.”
Mike shrugs. “Tor wasn’t here the day the cops came by.”
Rhys studies my profile. I lean closer to the counter, out of his view. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my b
rother that himself.”
My heart knocks painfully against my chest. Brother. “He’s here? Now?”
“Yeah. I’ll grab him from the back.”
Panic flares in my veins, blood rushing. As he pushes through the swing-door, I slide off the stool. I can’t be here. If it is the same bartender from the night of my attack, I could compromise the investigation.
Rhys catches my upper arm before I can slip away. “There’s more than one Torrance in Florida, Hale. Just like there is more than one lake with lotuses.”
“I know.” Rhys knows my case as well as I do. He questioned Torrance the bartender. I read the interview he conducted, the probing questions, as he attempted to build a narrative of that night.
The urge to snap the band at my wrist rises up. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I know there are,” I say again, “and Torrance’s last name isn’t Rixon. Mike said his brother. So likely, not the same person. But if there’s even a slim chance… I need to go.”
His mouth curves into a tight frown. If this is the same man from my past, Rhys knows this investigation will change drastically.
“Two women,” I say, my voice low. “Both attacked in parallel fashion.”
I don’t have to say the rest. One dead. The other not.
“Rhys, if this is the same person, he might not recognize you. Not if I leave.”
But the both of us together will be hard to dismiss.
